


Potentiality

by mneiai



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Bunch Of Different People Commenting On It Are Not Going To Make It Happen, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Creepy Daenerys, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Essos, F/M, Fan theories, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Roles, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderfluid Character, I'm Bullshitting Most Of The Magic, If you're going to read all the way to chapter 32 in order to be homophobic and transphobic trolls, Jon Is A Trans Man Please Stop Telling Me To Tag This 'Female Jon Snow', M/M, Misgendering, Not Beta Read, Other, Pansexual Character, Sister-Sister Relationship, Stark bashing, Targaryen Restoration, The Patriarchy, Trans Character, Trans Jon Snow, canon-typical incest, deadnaming, just know how pathetic that makes you, mild dubcon, post final season
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-03-20 08:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 43,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18989362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mneiai/pseuds/mneiai
Summary: Daenerys died with her love's lips against hers and his blade in her darkened heart. Jon died alone in the cold with his guilt. That is not their end.They both wake up years earlier, in a world that is nearly the same...but with two differences that greatly affect them. Jon and Daenerys must navigate the future they know is coming from the bodies of Joanna Snow and Daeron Targaryen, with all that entails.





	1. Winterfell | Pentos

**Author's Note:**

> So as a non-binary person genderswap fics both fascinate me and often feel super awkward. It's worse in stuff set in the modern day or cultures with some level of third gender, but it's awkward regardless, really, even as I like the exploration of how being a different gender might change a character.
> 
> I was thinking of time travel fix-it fics for Game of Thrones, though, and it made me wonder...what would have happened if Jon had been a woman and Dany a man? Dany would have been able to get away with a lot more and had much more support to begin with...but both of them would still have much different lives and still need to get to that point. So, I decided to do a time travel fix-it with a "genderswap" of their bodies/the versions of them they're replacing, but the minds of their previous life. The two of them will deal in different ways with this, their histories and culture playing a role in it.
> 
> It's Dark Daenerys as she's not far from the mindset she had at the end of the series, though dying (and waking up in a body with a penis) sort of shocked her into a calmer approach to it. It's mostly Game of Thrones canon, with just a little of the books throne in here and there.

Jon startled awake, hands gripping the blankets around him as he sat. He remembered death, cold and unforgiving, welcome by the second time it came to him. And yet...here he was. He did not feel dead--his breath shuddered through his chest, his heart beat pumped in his ears.

He glanced around, seeing a small, tidy room in what could only be Winterfell. His room, his old childhood room. The same and yet...different. There were tapestries and sundries he was unfamiliar with, not just because he hadn't seen them in years, but because he'd never seen them.

Standing, he wobbled for a moment, the balance of his body unexpected, and when he looked down he gasped. Small breasts appeared in his view and the body that went along with them was more slender and effeminate than he had ever seen. 

There was a mirror of polished silver sitting on a table and he grabbed it, staring at himself in the early light of dawn--he had the same hair, though far longer, the same eyes, a long face and pale, pale skin, and yet...and yet he appeared to be a girl.

A girl, not even a full-grown woman. 

He searched through his things, finding clothing for a girl, finer than the clothing he'd worn as a bastard boy was, though still nothing like what Sansa might have worn. There were tunics and trousers, as well, worn enough that he knew they'd been used. The sort of things Arya always tried to wear. Something told him _she'd_ made him, this girl he now was.

Hesitating over the clothing, he finally decided on one of the plainer dresses with a huff. He'd come back from the dead (twice, now, if this could be called such), fought White Walkers, ridden dragons, he refused to be afraid of wearing girl's clothing.

His hands moved automatically once he started, falling into a pattern that seemed long-practiced of putting on all that he needed, even of braiding back his unruly curls. The less time he spent actively thinking of things, the more this girl's life seemed to come to him.

Joanna Snow, bastard daughter of Lord Eddard Stark (who still did not know of her mother, which to Jon meant she, too, must truly be the daughter of Lyanna and Rhaegar). She was close to her brother Robb, but closest to her sisters Sansa and Arya, though in different ways. She was the bridge between the two, the peacemaker, and it made Jon's heart ache to realize that in this world they were both better off, both happier, because he was a she.

Shaking himself off, he diligently started through the doors, ready to perform the chores Joanna had before breaking her fast. There was a lot he didn't know, yet, and playing along in this...whatever it was would be necessary until he knew how to escape. 

***

Daenerys woke up with a gasp, hands flying to her heart. They felt wrong, as did her chest, and when she looked down...it was all wrong. Too flat, too broad, her hands far too large. Masculine.

She glanced around her, panic flaring before she could start to pull herself together.

The last thing she remembered was Jon kissing her...and stabbing her. The tears in his eyes, the fury in her mind. 

She'd heard his story of coming back to life. It was nothing like this.

The room was different than her memories, but still recognizable--she was in Illyrio's manse. That meant...Viserys was down the hall. As soon as she thought it, she knew it to be true.

And once she started thinking through that, more came to her. She was still trying to work through the jumble of thoughts and memories as servants came into the room to prepare her for the day.

It was odd, having men helping her, but her body knew what to do. They bowed and were as respectful as expected, asking "Prince Daeron" if he required anymore from them before she waved them off and settled back into her own mind.

Somehow, she was alive. In the past. Though she was not fully herself. The youngest son of Aerys and Rhaella instead of their only daughter, the girl born too late.

Thinking of her family made her think of Jon again. He had looked miserable, she remembered. Hesitant. Had someone threatened him? Tyrion could have, perhaps, or one of the others who worked against her. Threatened the treacherous Starks that Jon had been so attached to. 

She would need to find him earlier in this timeline. The Starks had already sunk their claws deep within him, but she could show him the truth of himself and teach him how to be a Targaryen instead.

As a man, as a prince, she would not be sold off to the Khal. She was trained as a warrior as Viserys never had been, had dabbled in becoming a sellsword once she was a little older and if she could escape his dreams of a throne. She would be no one's victim.

Now she knew that Viserys' fantasies were not so impossible. All she needed to do was find a way to bring the dragons back in this world and the chaos Westeros would fall into because of Cersei Lannister would pave the way to the throne.

The only thing she had to decide on was whether to allow Viserys to take it as her puppet or to get rid of him. He might cause more trouble than he was worth, but he _was_ still her brother. And in this world Daenerys had grown fast enough, large enough, that Viserys hadn't dared touch her as he had in the other. She could be a little more forgiving.

After all, she'd have enough enemies when she abolished slavery among the Free Cities and wiped out the remaining Starks before they could move against her.


	2. Winterfell | Pentos

Jon started out planning on leaving within a moon or two, until he realized just how hard that would be--a young woman wasn't a young man. No matter that Joanna had been training in swords and bows before he ever took her body and increased that training, she was still a woman and that's all anyone saw when they looked at Jon.

Instead, he decided to take every advantage he could from this new life while he came up with some alternative way to leave, to help in the fight against the Others. He spent as much time with his father (uncle) and siblings (cousins) as he could, delighting in having them all back with him and safe. This Bran would never betray him for power, this Sansa would never plot against him for a crown. At least, he would do everything in his power to make it so.

He passed more time in the crypts than he'd been able to in his previous life, leaving flowers for his mother and speaking with her in whispers. He'd had no time to adapt to being a Targaryen, had been left reeling from the truth and that had never once stopped. Even when he'd been largely left alone in the True North, Dany's blood on his hands had made it impossible to think of her. He was a kinslayer, but he hadn't wanted to acknowledge it. In this life he'd had times to come to terms with not being a Snow _or_ Stark and was starting to come to appreciate it.

He'd spent half his childhood pretending to be Targaryens while at play, and that wasn't any different for Joanna. She'd chosen Visenya and Rhaenys as often as she'd chosen Jonquil or Lady Jenny in the games she and her siblings played. 

That was...still not something he was used to. His body was wrong, his voice was wrong, the way others treated him, even while he appreciated how much better much of it was, was wrong. Somedays he wanted to tear the dresses from his body and scream out that he was not a young woman, no matter what rested between his legs.

Yet he didn't, because that was not done. Maybe in some far-off lands in Essos. Maybe if he had found the courage to run away despite the increased dangers, to live life as a pirate or a sellsword by taking up a new identity...but even that, he knew, was unlikely. In the last world he'd been short for a man and in this one he was short for a woman; in the last world he'd been pretty for a man and in this one he was beautiful. Even in his masculine clothing, with his hair pulled back and cloth wrapped around his breasts to push them down, he still looked like a woman. He wondered if he would ever get to meet Brienne, to tell her how much he envied her body. 

All he could do was act like a lady (a princess) and deal with the wrongness in private.

And there were other ways his mind and body being so at odds caused problems: Ghost was still born male, so that the direwolves did not seem to exactly match the Stark children. Jon was finding it was far easier as a girl to sway his father than it had been as a boy, it was how he'd even gotten to go to the execution, and so he had to rely on that to convince him the direwolves should be theirs. It was the difference, he thought, of looking like a Targaryen-influenced Ned and looking like a more refined Lyanna. His father couldn't bare to say no to the image of his dead sister.

And being Joanna might mean being blissfully without Lady Catelyn's outright hatred, as a girl would be no threat to her brothers' claims, but that didn't mean his interactions with others were much better. Theon no longer mocked and derided him, instead he flirted so heavily that it was improper. Jon had gotten used to relying on his body's instincts for avoiding the groping from visiting lords and their sons. And his moon's blood was...well, he didn't know why anyone thought women couldn't handle battle, after dealing with that.

Jon wasn't sure what else had changed, who else had changed, but he kept a careful ear out for gossip from the South. When news came that Jon Arryn had died, he felt panicked as he realized what was to come--he had so much to do. And he wasn't even sure if he'd accomplish anything at all.

He'd done his best to work with Sansa, glad she wasn't quite as flighty as she had originally been in their last life--this was not a girl who would fall for Joffrey's pretty looks. And he was probably the only one who could get Arya into dresses or paying attention at her lessons--they were true sisters, he'd whisper to her as they practiced swordplay, and they needed all the skills they could get. She would not be play fighting with the butcher's boy on the road to the Red Keep, she would, hopefully, not be attacked by a mad prince.

His nightmares of his last life increased, of what he'd imagined the Red Wedding looked like, or the tortures Sansa went through. But he also dreamt of better things, of the Wall and his friends there, of the Free Folk and Ygritte...of Daenerys, their soft bodies against each other's, her slender hands between his legs. He'd always wake up at that point, shuddering in a mix of revulsion and need, not daring to touch that part of himself he could barely stand to acknowledge. 

***

Over the next few months, Daenerys did all she could to better herself and improve Daeron Targaryen's reputation across Essos...and, hopefully, back in Westeros. Her new body was talented with sword and spear and she had not lost the horsemanship she'd known in her past life. She had training in actual war, though she'd only taken part in combat from Drogon's back, and had listened intently to her commanders when they'd spoken of it, so her knowledge of such made life easier when plotting with the sellsword companies she could find.

She even found out why Illyrio was so interested in helping them, a fact she'd never had the chance to gain in a past life. His beloved second wife, the woman he still mourned years later, had been from a line of Targaryen bastards in Lys. Her mother had shared with her stories of her great-grandfather Maegor Targaryen, of his mad father Aerion and how close Maegor had come to kingship if only others could look past his father's reputation, and she'd dreamt of finding a way to meet her extended family, of being accepted among them.(1)

There were four Targaryens alive in the world right now, Daenerys realized, as she went into the meeting of loyalists after her talk with Illyrio. In her last life, it had been as many as there had been for as long as she could remember. She had died without any human children and Jon...she didn't think Jon would ever have any, after what happened. He had still been upset over causing Ygritte's death, actually being the one holding the weapon for Daenerys' would have surely broken him.

Her hand stroked down her flat, hard stomach for a moment as she realized that perhaps that's why she was brought back as she was--she doubted the same sacrifice would happen to hatch her dragons, as she couldn't become pregnant. That meant she could have children, children to carry on the family line. It was such a wonderful thought.

"Ser Jorah?" 

She approached him separate from Viserys, always making sure to exist in contrast to her mad brother, as the better option for anyone wanting to restore their family's dynasty (or for those spies who may have loyalties she could sway). It had worked wonders so far, with many coming up to her in private to speak when they grew sick of dealing with her brother.

"Yes, your grace?"

How odd it was, to not have his attraction. She could have used it well in this lifetime to ensnare his loyalty earlier than she had before. Instead, she'd need other means of getting him in her camp, of maybe even feeding the Usurper false information about her.

"I was wondering if you could tell me more about the...Rebellion. I imagine you know more about the Northern involved, of what the Starks went through, than anyone else I've met." 

He shifted, studying her, eyes flicking to Viserys as if wondering if she wanted the same lies that her brother did, before he came to the conclusion. "You know of...of you father, your grace?"

She grimaced. "I do. I know of the things he did, of why others would wish him gone."

That seemed to be enough to convince him and he wove the story as he knew it--of Lyanna Stark's "kidnapping," of Brandon Stark's foolish threats and Rickard Stark's attempt to save his heir, and of Eddard Stark's rise. He concluded, as any Northman surely would, that eventually Lord Stark had found his sister, only for her to die soon after, and he returned with her bones to Winterfell.

Daenerys had stayed mostly quiet during the speech, only asking a few questions when potentially still-living Targaryen loyalists had been mentioned, but now there was one question she needed an answer for.

"Is that all? He just...returned with his sister's bones, after everything?"

"Well, and his bastard, I suppose." 

Daenerys gave a small frown, then made the leading statement, "The descriptions of him you and others have given me haven't made him seem the type of man to father a bastard."

"It surprised all of us, in truth. We'd never seen his eyes wander, he'd never been with a camp follower or a tavern wench, as far as any of us knew. But, the truth was in the babe--she was pure Stark."

She nodded in thought, dismissing him, and it was only after that she realized what Jorah had told her--"she." The baby Eddard Stark brought home was a girl. Jon in this world was a woman in perhaps the same way she was a man.

Excusing herself from the company she settled into her bedroom, alone, unsure of the feelings racing through her. Jon could still be hers, he would be no true threat to her throne. They surely must be meant to be together, if her change meant he, too, had changed. This time, he could be _her_ Queen. She shivered, body heating up as she realized he could be the one to bare her children. Pureblood Targaryens, future dragonriders, come from the two of them. 

Looking down at herself, her eyes widened. She could see the bulge in her trousers and realized exactly what it was she was feeling. With a breathless laugh, she touched herself, realizing with appreciation how easy it was to increase her own pleasure, now. Closing her eyes, she imagined a beautiful woman with Jon's hair and eyes, kneeling before her and declaring her his king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Aerion Brightflame is the notorious Targaryen who drank a cup of wildfire because he thought it would turn him into a dragon. His son, Maegor, was a child at the time and passed over for the kingship, never being mentioned again (in the histories we have so far) after that. Aerion was one of the brothers of Aegon the Unlikely who was ahead of him in the succession (and thus a brother to Maester Aemon of the Night's Watch, too). In the books, we know that Illyrio is plotting to put a character who claims to be Aegon VI Targaryen on the throne, but in the show this character doesn't exist and it leaves Illyrio's motivations very confusing. I just worked in one of the fan theories about the supposed Aegon VI for this.


	3. Winterfell | Pentos

The King came and no one had to tell Jon twice to stay hidden. He looked more like Lyanna than even Arya did and was a woman grown, on top of that. While he didn't quite know if Robert would go as far as to try anything under his best friend's watch, he was too drunk too often for Jon to risk anything.

He instead spent more time with the younger children, Bran especially. The fall, he had decided as soon as he heard that Cersei and Jaime were still in the King's entourage, would not happen. His little brother would not become the Three Eyed Raven and would hopefully never realize his abilities to manipulate the minds of others.

Arya and Sansa were a bit put-out by Jon's time spent with Bran and Rickon, as they were old enough to be expected at many of the events held in the King's honor. He tried to make extra time for them when he could, thankful that his chores had been diminished despite the extra workload because some would take him too close to where the King might be.

"Father said the King wants me to marry Prince Joffrey," Sansa whined as they sat in a room watching Bran play, their fingers working through their embroidery with near automatic movements.

"Ew," Arya put in, from beside Jon, wrinkling her nose and looking for all the world like she'd just had manure shoved under it.

Jon nodded. "He seems...very arrogant." They all nodded, even Bran, who Jon hadn't thought would be paying attention. "And, well, you see the King and Queen--you deserve better than that, Sansa, you both do."

"We _all_ do," she replied, giving Jon a pointed look. "We all deserve kind lords who will love us truly and treat us with respect."

It hurt his heart, to see how much improved Sansa was here already. Was there something Jon could have done in the past life to make his Sansa more like her? Had he just not tried hard enough to protect his little sister?

"Jo!" He blinked and turned his attention to Arya, who had apparently been trying to gain his attention.

"Sorry, sorry. What is it?"

She rolled her eyes, then pointed to his embroidery. Sansa was distracted talking to Jeyne and Bran wasn't looking, either, Jon noticed, and so when he looked down at what he'd been making he felt slightly less worried. But...still worried.

He'd meant to make a Ghost running through the Wolfswood. Instead he'd made a dragon flying over it.

Arya raised her eyebrows at him and he glanced at Sansa, then shook his head. She nodded and he knew she wouldn't press the subject, not until they had some actual time alone.

The men went on a hunt and returned, the only noticeable event being the mocking comments Robert gave about Joffrey. Jon could almost (almost) feel sorry for the boy, because while Robert wasn't his real father, he was the only one Joffrey knew of, and Jaime didn't seem any closer to the boy than any other.

Avoiding Robert meant avoiding Jaime, regretfully, and Tyrion, less regretfully. He'd always thought of Jaime as his enemy and Tyrion as his friend, but it had been Tyrion who helped convince him his sisters were under threat from Daenerys, who took in his mental turmoil and decided to abuse it. And then, when he had a chance to tell the truth, of how Jon had been nothing but a pawn to him and the Starks, he instead let Jon take the complete fall and ended up no worse off than he'd been before.

With Jaime...well, Jon could understand loving a monster. And if he'd had longer with Dany, if they'd been half as close as Jaime and Cersei for half as long, he thought he might have made the same awful decisions for her.

But neither of these men were those men, he reminded himself, just as he did with his siblings. They had not gone through most of the what had changed them at the end and Jon shouldn't judge them for it (he would not judge Daenerys, he knew, when they first met again, he would give her every chance he could and try to be better, try to be the support she needed).

When the King's party finally left, Ned Stark went with them as Hand, but he did not bring any of his children. There was no betrothal between Sansa and Joffrey, instead they spoke of Myrcella possibly marrying Robb when she was older, and that was that.

Jon hugged his sisters extra tight the night their father left. They just thought he was sad about that and didn't protest, holding him back just as tightly. It was the first time, for them, that their family would be separated for more than a few months. They were too young to remember the Greyjoy Rebellion, after all, and no one had been fostered out yet.

This time, he promised them silently, they would be safe in Winterfell when war broke out.

***

Daenerys missed her gowns the most--the sense of power she had when she forced men's eyes to turn to her, when they forgot what they were saying, doing, because of her beauty.

But there was something to be said for how easy it was to move in men's clothing. How no skirts got in her way as she mounted a horse or ran up a flight of stairs.

How there was no great lengths of excess fabric to be caught in the fire she stoked under the dragon eggs Illyrio had finally given her. She was fireproof in this body, though she didn't know if it was something of Daeron or if she'd brought that magic with her. Viserys and Jon had not been fireproof, though Jon had never embraced the dragon inside of him and Viserys had never been a true dragon.

There was something missing, she knew, a sacrifice necessary--life paying for life. She'd entertained the idea of sacrificing her brother, but she still held out hope of keeping him alive. He wasn't quite so bad in this life, not quite so mad--having a brother who grew up so fast must have given him more protection, as opposed to a little girl to drag around.

Still, he thought people wanted him to be King, to the point he couldn't even see that they were plotting against him under the same roof.

They had so much in common in all of the ways she didn't want to.

"Nothing, yet?"

She glanced up at Ser Jorah, shaking her head. "This isn't enough."

"The fire?"

With a smirk, she corrected, "The blood."

He frowned at that, eyes a little wide. "Lots of people have sacrificed lots of lives trying to hatch dragon eggs--Summerhaul was--"

"They had no true dragons at Summerhaul."(1) That shut him up, he'd seen Daenerys' immunity to fire firsthand. She'd shown all the people she wished to sway from her brother's (or the Usurper's) side. "I can feel the life in these eggs, waiting to come back."

"Have you asked Illyrio?"

"If I ask Illyrio for lives, he'll give me slaves the Pentoshi claim are free."

Jorah winced, the former slaver reminded of his dishonor, of the reason he'd fled Westeros. She wouldn't let him forget that, in this world, he had a penance to serve.

"And I don't think they'll be much help. I need...someone I have a connection to, somehow." She knew it was true as she was saying it, licking her lips and imagining who, other than her brother or Jon, she could possibly burn.

And then she realized there were many people, in fact, who could fit that description--they were just across the Narrow Sea. She needed a Baratheon, or a Lannister, or even a Tully or Stark. They wouldn't even have to be from the main branch, she thought, as long as she could imagine someone would miss them. She hated them and they had helped destroy her family. It would be enough.

She dismissed Jorah and headed to Illyrio. With his assistance, they might be able to lure someone to Pentos who would suit her needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) I'm just bullshitting. Summerhaul refers to the Tragedy thereof where Aegon the Unlikely, thinking he needed dragons in order to have the power to push through the social reforms he wanted (the nobility hated him because he tried to help the smallfolk) gathered almost all of his family to the family palace and...something happened and nearly everyone died. It was where Rhaegar was born, as Rhaella had been very pregnant but still forced to attend. Some people think they maybe meant to sacrifice a newborn Rhaegar for the dragons or something like that and that Ser Duncan prevented it. Some people believe the maesters purposefully caused the accident because their goal is to destroy magic. There's lots of theories.


	4. Winterfell | Pentos

The fire raged higher, too hot for any of the audience to go near the pit. The screams had died off, the fire had eaten the blood that had drenched Daenerys' skin, and she could feel the magic thick in the air. Watching the sacrifices writhe in fear had left her thrumming with emotion, with righteousness. Their family had tried to destroy hers and failed, and now they would pay.(1)

Around the fire milled a mix of her people, Illyrio's servants, and Red Priests. Sometimes she could see them through the flickering flames, waiting, watching. Sometimes she imagined going out there and forcing more of them within, watching them burn from up close.

But, no, these were not her enemies or the enablers of them. These were her allies. These people she needed.

Overhead, a red comet appeared in the night's sky as the first cracks appeared in the eggs. Soon enough, three perfect little dragons crawled over her, settling on her shoulders and in her arms.

When she walked out, everyone as far as her eyes could see fell to their knees and cried out in wonder. King Daeron had brought dragons, had brought _magic_ , back to the world.

***

Jon woke, startled, sitting up and shaking. He felt hot, so hot, but the air was chilled around him and there was no sweat on his skin. 

He still stumbled from his bed, stripping off all of his clothing and huddling against the cooler stone in one of the corners. He felt like he was on fire, but his skin looked _fine_.

There was no way for him to track how much time he spent like that, curled up on the floor, but eventually he knew he had to move. He stood, legs wobbling under him with pins and needles, but instead of his bed his feet to him to the nearly-extinguished fire in his hearth. It didn't take much to get it going again, but Jon felt no true heat from it. 

Cautiously, cursing himself for a fool, he reached his hand forward. Closer, closer, and still he did not feel the burning heat he expected. He touched the flame, then pulled his hand back--his fingers were still as pale as ever. 

The next time he did not hesitate, reaching his whole hand into the flame, touching the burning wood, then pulling it back again. No burns, not even the slightest of marks.

This wasn't possible. He'd never been fireproof before, that was Dany's gift, her magic. 

He wasn't a true dragon, not like she was.

***

 _Father of Dragons_ did not have quite the same ring to it, but Daenerys didn't mind. _Unburnt_ was still impressive. And soon they'd be calling her the _Breaker of Chains_ and the _Conqueror Reborn_. Soon they'd be calling her _King of the Seven Kingdoms_.

Viserys was away, sent on a mission that was never supposed to succeed to gain them support they didn't even want, and so no one dared interrupt when Daenerys requested time alone with her new dragons. She'd have to be careful with them, many would want to steal them from her, but with Illyrio's full support and protection, she thought she'd be more safe than in the last life when she was left wandering in the wastes.

She hesitated over naming her dragons. For the dragon that had been Drogon, the answer was easy enough--he had been Balerion reborn in the eyes of the people and so he shall be named for the Black Dread. 

She was the most torn over what to name Rhaegal. Her relationship to her dead eldest brother hadn't changed so much, but now that she knew he'd run off with Lyanna to marry her, she couldn't help but wonder how much of the Rebellion was the direct result of him thinking with his cock. Everyone had told her what a wonderful person he was and he was the reason she had Jon, but he was not blameless. Still, it would be his blood, as much as hers, that all future Targaryens had--that would need to suffice as enough of a tribute.

Besides, this would be Jon's dragon and she needed to do everything she could to remind him of his true family while not making him shy away from it. And there was no more fitting a name for his mount for what she was sure his namesake was in this world--Vhagar.

Viserion she'd hardly name after Viserys again, even in her last life she'd sometimes regretted the choice. Had his name been part of his downfall, she'd wondered. And then realized how ridiculous that was--there was no luck involved, no bad omens. Everything that had gone wrong could be traced to only a handful of sources and while some of them were powerful, none were gods. There was just one other dragon to honor along with Balerion and Vhagar for the Conqueror Reborn. None of her children were the silver of Meraxes, but Viserion was light in color and had golden details as Meraxes had(2). It was only fitting, too, to have the full set of three.

"My King?"

Daenerys glanced towards the door where a servant, a lovely girl who had been a pleasure slave as many of the girls had been, hovered nervously. She had a tray of meat with her, though, and so Daenerys waved her in.

The girl skirted around the room to set the tray down on the table near Daenerys, her wary eyes barely leaving the dragons. She bowed and backed away as soon as she could and Daenerys almost laughed at her. The dragons were babes, yet, they could not even manage more than puffs of smoke, and yet everyone around them was terrified.

In truth, they should be more scared of King Daeron III than they were of any of his children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Dany doesn't really know or care exactly who she sacrificed, but assume it's like some Lannister third cousins once removed or something like that, maybe some Lannisport Lannisters. They had the Lannister look and name and that's all she cared about.
> 
> (2) Meraxes was a silver dragon with gold eyes, so it seemed to fit Viserion on the best (cream with golden details). Vhagar's appearance is actually completely unknown to us at this point, so I decided for that name for Rhaegal--as far as we know, Vhagar will end up being green, too. I actually spent a lot of time wavering over Rhaegal's naming, of having Balerion (Drogon), Meraxes (Viserion), and Vhagar (Rhaegal) or of having Rhaegal remain that and naming the others something else. Especially because of Meraxes, who was brought down in Dorne by basically the same device that was used against Rhaegal in the show (though that was one extremely lucky shot and not three lol), so I thought Dany would shy away from that name. But then I decided, fuck it, Jon would almost definitely be Visenya if he were a girl, after all.
> 
> (I debated a name based on Rhaella, but if I did Rhaegal it seemed too similar and if I kept two of the three names of dragons from the Conquest it seemed unbalanced)


	5. Winterfell | Pentos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is sort of where the characters get ready to start their travels. I have no real interest in rewatching the show anymore, I'd rewatched seasons 5-7 before season 8 came out, but haven't watched the earlier seasons in awhile. So, I'm going to probably gloss over a lot of the details and do some time jumps, especially for Dany's side of the story. I may also end up accidentally using book details that never happened in the show, though I'll try to avoid that.
> 
> For anyone wondering, I'm trying to keep about two chapters ahead with my writing, but don't actually have the fic finished or anything.

Jon was stalling. He _knew_ he was stalling. He'd had a bag packed with essentials for a fortnight, hidden under his bed. Letters to his family already written out and hidden carefully for when he'd need them. Yet he could never make that last step of actually leaving.

War was on the horizon. Even in Winterfell, even as a bastard daughter, Jon was hearing bits and pieces. His father had uncovered the truth, most likely, but with no attempts on Bran's life, it meant Lady Catelyn hadn't gone South and hadn't kidnapped Tyrion, and so Jaime hadn't retaliated by attacking him. Instead it was Stannis (and Melisandre, Jon was sure) stirring up conflict. 

He wasn't surprised when Robb received a "shocking" raven declaring Robert's children bastards. Far more interesting was their father's raven not long after, asking Robb to call the banners and prepare for war against the Lannisters. 

Westeros was spiraling to its doom and not a single one of those Southern fools or the Northern lords who should know better were looking at the missives sent by the Watch. Jon could scream.

Instead, he started a fight with Theon.

It was an easy enough thing to do, because given the opportunity Theon would take any chance to flirt with Joanna. A bastard without her father around to protect her was a clear opening to the Iron Born. That made Jon's skin crawl, both because it was a reminder of the body he was in and because of how Theon seemed to think, even after years growing up alongside them, that women weren't people in the way men were.

He also seemed to forget about Jon's brother. Who heard the whole thing, saw the hard punch Jon delivered to Theon's stomach and the knee between his legs, and didn't even try to scold Jon. If nothing else, Jon hoped it would set Robb on edge a bit when it came to Theon, maybe make him a little less likely to trust the other.

After that, it was collecting Needle from Mikken and leaving it in a secret spot he and Arya shared, then placing a dress he'd made for Sansa where she would find it. A new toy for Bran and a blanket for Rickon were the last of the gifts he had for her siblings. He would see them again, he told himself, but the words rung hollow in his mind.

Finally, he left. At the break of dawn, dressed as a boy and finally feeling something like himself. Alongside Ghost, in light clothing on a pale horse, he'd do a good job of blending into autumn snows.

***

Daenerys feasted with Oberyn Martell and Ellaria Sand, the Red Viper just as intense as stories claimed. He'd come after Daenerys had put out tentative feelers to the Houses she knew might be loyal and she was glad to have them.

They spoke in fervent whispers about the destruction they'd bring to House Lannister and laughed together over how House Baratheon seemed to already be coming apart. She knew she couldn't fully trust Varys, but for now the information he gave to Illyrio was quite useful.

She knew that Eddard Stark had still gone South as Hand to the Usurper, but heard nothing of his children following. It was a shame, she had hoped to find Sansa when she reached the Red Keep and get rid of the girl before she could become a future problem.

Oberyn had other information, too, his own spies augmenting Varys' little birds, giving Daenerys a fuller picture. Not that she wouldn't have found other reasons to spend time with him--the man was quite easy on the eyes and both he and Ellaria were very open to any bedroom games that Daeron thought up. It was good to be King.

She'd had sex with some of the servants, a few of the Red Priestesses, even a handful of the Westerosi exiles who came to swear themselves to her. She wasn't sure if what she felt was the same thing Jon had felt in their old life, but she liked it quite a bit. As a man, experiencing an orgasm every time was nearly a given, and taking a place of power was almost always expected. She couldn't understand how Jon, how any man, could have been so often chaste.(1)

Sometimes, the thoughts of Jon became too much, and she called for dark haired young women with pale skin, a rare find in Essos but Illyrio was nothing if not resourceful. She'd have them keep their eyes closed (not a one yet had the right shade) and fuck them roughly, imagining Jon beneath her. 

It was some time before anyone confronted her on the matter and it was a sly looking Ellaria with a comment that could have been completely innocent, if Daenerys hadn't known her so well. Of course, Daenerys would have preferred her not suggesting that Daeron had inherited an obsession for Lyanna Stark from his older brother.

"I have a niece," she stated, deciding to get ahead of the rumors. "Lyanna's trueborn daughter."

Both Oberyn and Ellaria had been shocked, then enraged for Princess Elia's sake, and finally had settled into something like acceptance. They knew it wasn't Jon's fault (Visenya, Daenerys had decided and it was the name she gave them)(2), it was Rhaegar's. He was a married man with two children who ran off with a teenage girl, after all. 

Rhaegar might have been the better of her brothers only because he hadn't lived to meet her.

With the dragons, it was easier to point out that the Targaryen custom of marrying within the family would have to continue. And they, and everyone else Daenerys slowly introduced to the idea of a female Targaryen out in the world, were easy to convince. It was insulting, the more she dwelled on it, to realize how much more of a say Daeron had in his marriage at the very start of his campaign than Daenerys, even at the height of her power, would have exercised.

With that settled and more support flooding in every time she looked, Daenerys traveled South, towards what would soon be the Bay of Dragons once more, collecting her armies as she went. She promised herself that as soon as Drogon could cross the Narrow Sea with a rider and a passenger they would go for Jon--she'd collect her niece, wed her and bed her, and secure the future of their family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) A lot of the sex Dany would have had as a woman in her last life wouldn't have been as pleasurable as it could have been, I don't think. Certainly her earliest experiences, where she was being raped, weren't, and Daario had seemed more like a player than a thoughtful partner. In contrast, given the misogyny rampant in a lot of Planetos, Daeron gets to make sex solely about his own pleasure and if his partners get off that's just extra.
> 
> (2) I touched on this before, but it's a common theory in the fandom that Rhaegar had wanted a second daughter--his children with Elia were named Rhaenys and Aegon, after Aegon I and one of his sisters, which means the name of his other sister was still up for grabs. And the three-headed dragon on the Targaryen crest are representative of Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya and Rhaegar says that the dragon must have three heads. Since this is really a show AU I did debate on having Joanna's real name be Rhaenys just for kicks, but I honestly hate that they named Jon Aegon in the show, so I couldn't do it.


	6. Beyond the Wall | Astapor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters are going to be more varying of length from here, some long, some short. The parts for Jon and Dany may also be very different lengths, depending on what's happening, and especially for the stuff with Dany that's more or less like what happened in the show which I'm going to skim through. The sections are taking place around the same relative time for them, though, so I'm going to keep them paired up.

Jon avoided the Kingsroad, the villages and homesteads, anything that might cause a run-in with other people. By now, Robb would have definitely noticed he was gone and surely sent ravens out to all of his bannermen to watch for Joanna. 

And even if he ran into someone who hadn't been told, Jon looked like a little, pretty boy in his tunic and trousers, with his hair pulled back and a bit of dirt marked on his face to hide the structure of it. If he'd been younger, a gangly, skinny thing like Arya, he would have had an easier time of looking less like a young woman, but it was the best he could do. At least it was getting colder, no one would think twice about the bulky clothing he wore to hide the curves of his body.

His pace was tortuously slow, but eventually he made it to the Nightfort. He spent the night camped out in the ruins of the castle, the saddle blanket and a throw that he, Arya, and Sansa had all worked on adding to the heat that Ghost's fur gave off. He wondered where exactly it was that Bran had stayed when he made his journey, if it had been nearby or somewhere else entirely. In this world, Jon might have been the first person to spend a night over in the Nightfort in years and it felt every bit as spooky as he had expected.

When morning came, he found the well just where Sam had told him it was. He carefully lead his horse down the treacherous stairs, Ghost helping to guide it where needed, and then finally made his way down the passageway through to the other side. 

In the bright light of day, he hastily put up his light colored hood to cover his hair and set out from the Wall at a gallop, Ghost easily keeping pace beside him. He did not know how long they traveled, from the Wall to the haunted forest and then through the woods themselves. 

He'd sleep in the largest tree he could find, though he made a point to avoid weirwoods, for only a few hours each night before continuing. There was a balance between caution and speed, but he did not know how to define it. His body, unused to the outdoors, tired quickly, but he was young enough that as long as he could keep eating (and Ghost certainly helped with that) he could keep going.

The free folk were often wanderers by nature and even moreso with the Others marching south upon them, so Jon didn't have any clear ideas where to look (only of places to avoid, like Craster's Keep). It was months before he'd ever set out on a ranging in his last life, everywhere he checked was still too south, yet.

But it seemed fate wished for him to find them, because when gathering wood for the night he all but stumbled upon a small camp.

His sword was out and Ghost was snarling at the group, who were equally surprised and ready for violence.

"What's a little lordling like you doing out here?" A lovely blonde woman, older than Jon by at least five years, demanded.

"I...." He'd spent many days going over what he'd say in his head, but now it was hard to remember. Ghost made another noise, as if to remind him, and he steadied himself with a deep breath. "I'm...not wanted, back home. I thought out here..."

"Not wanted? A pretty thing like you?" One of the men made an obscene gesture and Jon gritted his teeth, trying to ignore them.

The woman was glancing between he and Ghost and he could almost see the moment she realized he was a warg, then she studied him more closely, eyes roving over his body. "True, I suppose they wouldn't like skinchangers there, would they? Not everyone likes your sort up here, but at least we know you have a use."

Jon wasn't sure it was the best idea, but he lowered his sword just a few inches. He was ready to defend if he still needed to, but also showing that he was willing to put down his weapon.

"Yeah? And do you? Have a use for me?" He glared back at the man who'd spoken before. "A real use for me, not just because some of you are too ugly to find someone to voluntarily share furs with."

She laughed, half-turning to the man and pushing him back. "Go back to the traps, you useless oaf, let me talk to the pretty lordling. I saw them first."

With that, the people around them dispersed. He was surprised, he thought there'd be more of a fight, but then again this was too odd of a situation to be a Night's Watch trap and certainly he didn't look like any of the free folk to be leading her on.

"I'm Val."(1)

"Jon."

She looked him over. "You came all the way out here with just that?" He shook his head. "Go get your things and come back here. Then we'll talk."

He glanced at Ghost, who seemed to be fine with her now that the weapons were put away, and decided that the risk was worth it. Eventually freezing to death or getting caught by the army of the dead would be far worse than trusting the wrong wildlings--one of those situations he could potentially get away from.

They slept in the camp that night and perhaps it was the abundance of warm bodies out in the open or maybe even whatever magics resided in Jon, but the dead found them. There was no White Walker, or if there was it wasn't doing anything more than observing, and the free folk had known to keep the fire burning. 

Jon didn't even bother going for his sword, instead grabbing a branch from the fire and wielding it against the dead. They went down easily once they caught, and he knew the Other couldn't be too close, as it wasn't as desperately cold as it could be in its presence. He'd been training himself to fight in this body for months and while the fact it was still growing meant there was a certain awkwardness to it, he thought he was doing well. The smaller size made it easier to dodge and roll away from the enemy, to duck under their grasping arms.

The last of the ones near him came at him when he wasn't quite ready. Ghost was distracted tearing the joints of another, unable to guard Jon's flank.

He fell back to the ground with the wight over him, biting and clawing at the air. He caught one wrist in his, knee going up to hold its chest further away, and doing his best to block the other hand while keeping hold of the branch. It lunged and he cried out, twisting his head out of the way, wishing he was closer in strength to his old body, his true body. 

Finally, gritting his teeth, he managed to turn the branch and get it between them, setting his clothing and the wight on fire at once. It screeched and let go, falling away, and he turned into the snow, dousing the flames left on him.

"Jon!" 

Val grabbed him, twisting him around. Everyone else was watching, he saw, cringing as if expecting him to be horribly burnt. If it was anyone else, he knew, they'd probably be at risk of dying from the burns.

"What?" She stared and Jon glanced down, grimacing at the hole burnt in his tunic and the bands of cloth he'd been using to keep his breasts smaller. "That's...not possible." She glanced up at him, then reached out, gently touching Jon's stomach and causing him to twitch at the sudden feeling.

He blushed, realizing the bottom of his breasts were exposed, he tried to pull the material back around him. "I...I'm not...."

"Not burnt," Val repeated, incredulous, wondering. 

Then she seemed to shake herself out of it and motioned to one of the others, who Jon thought was named Brun. "Grab something for him to put on, yeah? Everyone else, let's break camp--we need to get out of here."

She stood and offered a hand to Jon, who tentatively took it. "You're not...." He wasn't sure how to bring up the fact she'd still called him "him."

Val rolled her eyes, patting Jon on the head. "Figured there was a _good_ reason you had to come up here. Being a warg you can hide, other stuff...not as much."(2)

Jon found himself smiling, just a little, for the first time in weeks. Being with the free folk had always felt like coming home to him, in a way, and this just made that all the clearer.

***

Astapor fell, as it had before, as it always should. Daenerys gave no quarter for any master--her dragons, the Unsullied, and the other newly freed slaves flowing out to every corner and making the streets run red. And this time Daenerys could go with them, Daeron well practiced with weapons and his blood seeming to ignite with excitement from the fight.

It had only been a little more difficult in this life, as Daeron hadn't come as the desperate, poor woman Daenerys had been before. But, still, the promise of a dragon could sway anyone, and so few understood that a dragon would never be a slave.

The hardest part, harder than making her plan work and freeing every slave in Astapor, was facing Missandei and Grey Worm once more. They looked so young and, while not technically innocent, far less world weary than they'd been at the end. In this world, in this time, they'd just been given hope back.

She kept Missandei on as a translator and expert on the slave population. Daeron had no need of a handmaiden and he certainly wasn't going to use Missandei the way he used some of the servant girls. They would never grow as close, Daenerys knew, and a part of her ached because of that, but it was for the best. She would never allow someone as sweet, as good, as Missandei be used against her again.

Even so, she did manage to arrange for her and Grey Worm to spend time together, more than Missandei would normally be able to spend with the commander of the Unsullied. She had them work out plans of integrating the Unsullied and the other slaves who wished to be trained to fight and become part of her army or who would serve her in other aspects. Daeron was not Mhysa here, but Patehz(3), and he was worshipped just the same.

For a few hours, as she righted the wrongs of slavery within Astapor, as she wetted her blade with the blood of the masters, she imagined just not going to Westeros. There was so much to fix here in Essos, so many who needed saving, and unlike in Westeros, these people appreciated such things.

But that would mean leaving her throne to the Lannisters, or worse. That would mean possibly abandoning her niece to the frigid North and her even worse family. And while no one in Westeros had to betrayed her, yet, she knew this new life was a chance to punish them for their crimes in her last one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Not going to lie, I totally thought when we saw Jon North of the Wall at the end of the show there'd be a beautiful blonde woman nearby that we could assume was Val. 
> 
> (2) If this wasn't obvious enough, basically Val suspected Jon was trans and knows enough about stuffy Southern culture to know that Jon would have a shitty time of it, so she thinks Jon ran away to the free folk because of that.
> 
> (3) So Mhysa is Old Ghiscari, it's a word that held on in slave culture, but I couldn't find any source for the word for "Father". I actually debated just using the Valyrian, to sort of convey the paternalistic aspect of Daeron, but was torn about it and ended up just making up a word. It's basically the Latin "pater" (father) while trying to use the idea that the language is supposed to be very guttural sounding to non-speakers.


	7. Beyond the Wall | Yunkai & Meereen

Joining the free folk this time was very different than the last. He wasn't a crow, of course, and he was so clearly magic that a few of the men who had been part of the small group watched Jon with disturbing reverence in their eyes.

He hadn't even had to worry about how he would find and meet with Mance, because apparently Val was close to him--her sister, Dalla, was his wife. 

And just like that, Jon was in Mance's inner circle.

Jon told them of the secret route through the Nightfort easily enough and Mance knew most of the unoccupied castles. It all seemed so easy and he remembered how close they would have gotten to winning if not for his betraying their trust in the last life. The Night's Watch could not stand against this force.

He ended up in a small party going south again, to show the free folk the path through the Night Fort. Among the group was Tormund and Jon had to fight hard not to be too friendly, to act as though he didn't know him. Thankfully, it was Tormund, and he was pushing boundaries from the start. 

Between he and Val, Jon managed to get them to tell him most of the information he already knew about the free folk and their ways of life, so he could have a reason for his knowledge. But, more than that, he found himself asking personal questions they'd rarely had time for before. Trading stories about their families, hobbies, about their dreams for the future, as ambiguous as that is.

If only he had never left the North in his last life, if only he had gone with Ghost to the Wall instead of going South. Perhaps he could have been happy there.

***

The Wise Masters of Yunkai fell just as easily as Daenerys knew they would. Daario was not as interested in Daeron, but he was still easy enough to turn with the right incentive. Her dragons were larger--well-fed from the start this time and benefiting from the knowledge of her last life. Yunkai fought and Yunkai fell.

And then, finally, they were onto Meereen. The pyramids on the horizon made her heart shudder in her chest, the memories of all the good times and all the bad times in that city, all the joy and pain, almost too much. 

She was not early enough to stop the crucifixions, but she was not so soft hearted in this life. Those children were a sacrifice, their deaths would only help to show the world the righteousness of her cause. 

The Great Masters sent their champion and expected Daeron to fight him. She was tempted, she knew the body she was in was quite a skilled fighter, but a King must learn to delegate. And she already knew Daario would win.

This time, after Grey Worm and others had snuck into the city and armed the slaves, after the revolt had happened and the city liberated, she did not crucify the same number of masters as they did children. Instead, she burnt them. Burnt all the masters.

There could be no peace as long as a master lived. 

"Once my ancestors may have perpetuated slavery. Old Valyria may have been its home. But the gods themselves showed that the ways of Valyria were not righteous. And my family, the only dragonlords to survive, were the ones who abandoned the practice and knew that no man should be enslaved! I will rectify the mistakes of the past, I will break the chains of slavery which no person should wear!"

Daeron loomed over the first batch of masters, dressed in red and black, with three dragons at his sides, and looked to every Westerosi present how they imagined Aegon the Conqueror must have.

"Dracarys!"


	8. Beyond the Wall | Meereen

They were a few weeks ahead of the main body of the free folk and moving quickly, making good time towards the Wall. Jon could appreciate just how slow he'd been going on his own, unsure of where he was headed, now that he was with them and they all had one destination in mind. 

They slept in shifts at night, keeping the fires always burning, ready for any more wights to attack. Ghost would run patrols whenever he was awake, circling their group and sniffing for the smell of cold and death that the Others and their forces brought with them. In sleep, Jon went with him.

It was during one of those dreams that a different smell came to them--it was oddly reminiscent of the smell of dragons and Jon urged Ghost to follow, curious about what it could be. When they reached a weirwood grove, they both became more cautious, remembering that the Three Eyed Raven might be watching them, plotting against them, even so early on.

The smell was strongest under the roots of one of the trees and Ghost cautiously dug down into the hard, cold earth. If it had been any later in the season, it would have probably been impossible for even him to break through.

Eventually the dirt gave way to a rotted wooden chest, which broke just as easily under Ghost's claws. Jon had him stop, then, staring at what was revealed. A rotting scabbard over...over what looked to be a Valyrian steel sword. He couldn't make sense of it, of why such a thing would be here, but he hurriedly had Ghost pick it up--carefully--by the hilt and bring it to him.

He was awake by the time Ghost came, two of the free folk on watch duty ignoring the now-familiar direwolf and his human. Jon ran the edge of his cloak over the sword, cleaning it off as best he could so he could make out the detailed work that still remained. Flames on the hilt, stones that might very well be rubies set into it, too, somehow still intact despite the condition it had been in. 

It was a longsword, though the length was a bit different than Jon was used to for them. Like it was made for a smaller person's hand, he thought, and even though there was no good reason for it, suddenly he knew which Valyrian steel sword this one. 

Dark Sister. His ancestral sword, the sword of Visenya and the Dragonknight.

Waiting under a tree in the middle of nowhere as if waiting for _him_ , at least in this lifetime. Had it been there before? If he'd had Ghost with him more often when he was north of the Wall or had been more familiar with warging, would he have found it?

"What do you have there?"

He jumped, glancing up, realizing it was only Val. "I...Ghost found it. This is going to sound mad, but...I think it's my family's old sword." It still felt odd, just blatantly claiming the Targaryens as his family, but it was the inescapable truth.

She raised her eyebrows, looking at it dubiously. "What would that be doing all the way out here?"

"My...well, one of my relatives, decades ago, was a crow. He took this sword with him when he went to the Wall and then no one saw it after."

"Waste of a good sword."

"You don't even know the half of it." He pulled it out of the half-ruined scabbard, letting the fire's light shine off the pattern in the metal. "This is Valyrian steel. The techniques used to make it were lost four hundred years ago, when Valyria, where my father's ancestors were from, was destroyed."

She frowned, looking it over. "For something that looks so old, it certainly seems to have a fine blade."

"Aye, they keep their sharpness when all other metals would dull. They're stronger and lighter even than castle-made steel." He leaned closer to her, meeting her eyes, the slightest smile quirking his lips upward. "Some call it dragonsteel, like some call obsidian dragonglass. And they can both kill white walkers."

Val's eyes widened. "You're sure?"

Jon nodded, leaning back and starting to put the sword away. Once they were at the Nightfort he'd hopefully be able to fashion something better, but for now he used the burnt shirt he'd kept shoved in his bags just in case and the sheath it had come with. 

"Just when I think you can't get any luckier for us, you go and prove me wrong."

***

King Daeron III, the Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, the Father of Dragons, and the King of the newly renamed Bay of Dragons, settled into life in Meereen with ease. No one needed to know that Daenerys had done this all before, that she'd made sure to ruthlessly destroy all of the people who would have been her opposition. There would be no Sons of the Harpy in this world.

Nor would she ever imprison her sons. She'd never truly known if Drogon had actually killed that child or not and even if he had...a dragon was not a slave to be forced to go against its nature. Any human without the blood of the dragon would look like prey.

Any human but herself and her nephew. And, she supposed, the brother that Illyrio was still kindly keeping watch over, though Daenerys had her doubts about him.

With most of the opposition gone, Daenerys turned her attention to the governing of her territories. In the last life, she hadn't given it nearly enough attention, her focus too often on Westeros. But now she knew better than to just look towards conquest--she was building an empire that would span the Narrow Sea. History would look back on her as it did Aegon I and his sister-wives, they would see Daeron III as accomplishing even more than his ancestors had dreamt.

And his children would have it all, none of them would grow up on the streets as he did or hiding as a bastard like their mother had. 

She had Daario, Missandei, Grey Worm, and a few dozen former slaves from the three cities she currently controlled meet with her for hours everyday, plotting out the new system of government and security forces that would be able to keep any remaining slavers from regrouping and causing trouble. The penalty for selling or owning slaves from the moment she conquered the cities was death, but there were other ways people would try to undermine her rule that didn't have defined punishments. Yet.

Working with them was such a relief compared to memories of her time in Westeros. Everyone understood how important what she had done was and how severe they had to be to keep their cultures from backsliding. In Westeros, everyone acted like she was a bad person, when all she was doing was trying to free them from Cersei and break the wheel. 

Even Jon...but, no, he'd loved her, she knew that. He hadn't been raised a Targaryen, hadn't realized they could, should, still be together, and the likes of Tyrion and the Starks had taken advantage of that. They'd both been hurting and confused and if it had been any other time, she would have been able to help him through it.

But it didn't matter, she reminded herself, because she wasn't Daenerys anymore. She was Daeron and Daeron would not make the same mistakes, Daeron would be ruthless and the people would celebrate him for it. Kings could always do what Queens could not and if even her father, the Mad King, had had dragons, no one would have dared call him that.

"My King?"

Missandei's cautious voice brought Daenerys back from her musings and she nodded at her to continue stating her plans, the initial steps to building their new, better world.


	9. The Wall | Meereen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys is getting ever more caught up in thinking about herself as Daeron. She'll go back and forth between how she refers to herself more and more.

No one was waiting for them at the Nightfort, it was as abandoned as ever.

Jon wondered if anything that had happened there in a prior life would ever even come to pass--would Bran still go North? Would Sam and Gilly ever even meet? 

It was odd to think about how, while so many of the changes he was making were (maybe) good, there were changes that would hurt others unintentionally. Sam might not even survive the Night's Watch without him and as horrible as it made him feel, there was nothing he could do about that.

The free folk had no problem sneaking into the Nightfort with him, whatever tales they had of the place likely no longer including exactly which castle was so maligned (though he still remembered the look Mance had given him when he'd spoken of it and was glad the deserter kept his mouth shut).

Once the group was settled, they started on a long list of tasks they now had to do--fortifying the castle and making sure it could stand against an attack from the South chief among them. 

Another warg, a man with a snow bunting for a skin, sent the little bird out to find the nearest group waiting for their word. Soon, Jon knew, they'd be funneling first more fighters and then civilians into the Nightfort. In preparation for that, he snuck down in the Gift with Ghost to hunt, having had to explain the concept of a siege and why they needed better stores to the free folk he enlisted to help. 

It had been months since he'd left Winterfell and he doubted anyone would still be looking for Joanna Snow and especially not near the Wall. He'd left enough hints that he hoped everyone assumed he'd either gone to Essos or was searching for his mother in Dorne. Still, Jon made sure to avoid anywhere people could travel and taught those with him willing to learn in which directions they'd find villages and keeps. They were too busy with their plans for the Watch to bother raiding at the moment, so he decided there was no harm in it.

Mance came through on the sixth night, with a bundled up and very pregnant Dalla who Val immediately took to one of the few decent rooms they'd prepared. 

"The King-Beyond-The-Wall is now the King-At-The-Wall," Jon stated when he returned from a hunt, relieved to see the man had made it. 

That earned him little more than a rude gesture from Mance and a reminder that he was nothing like a Southron king as he bunked down for the night in the same crowded room that Jon and the others slept in.

There was no Stannis, at least not yet, and no red priestess. The chances of Mance being sacrificed to some foreign god this time were much smaller. It didn't stop the dreams, though, Mance burning at the Wall mixing in Jon's mind with King's Landing burning, and Varys, and the friendly fire during the battle of Winterfell, until even his dream self didn't know what was going on.

And then, at the very end of the dreams, as the fires raged and screams filled the air, Jon saw a man watching him. Unmistakably Targaryen, though unrecognizable. 

"Father?" he said, more for a lack of any other guess, but there was no response.

When he awoke, he realized that in the final moments of his dream, he'd stopped being disturbed by the screams and death, stopped feeling the fear and horror of the fires. Instead he'd just felt curiosity and a desire to get closer to that man.

***

Daenerys stood before the large map she'd ordered made of the western part of Essos, staring at the next potential targets. She wanted to go to Vaes Dothrak, to take the Dothraki as she had in the last life (though she imagined Daeron would have a much easier time of gaining their respect, perhaps not even having to murder all of the khals to get it), but her eyes kept wandering to Volantis.

"My King?"

She looked up at the voice, eyes bright even as her expression remained stern. Of all the similarities with the last life, she hadn't expected Ser Barristan Selmy to appear again before her, and yet he did, sneaking in Meereen much as he had before. Of course, this time she knew his face quite well, playing along only as much as was needed.

There was no doubt in the knight's mind, she knew, that King Daeron III was going to be a great king, far better than any of the options Westeros currently had. And this Ser Barristan was going to survive to see his rightful ruler take the throne.

"What say you, Ser Barristan? I could go east and seek more armies to bring to Westeros, so that the conflict will be over as quickly as it can be. Or I could start west and stop the Volantenes from interfering in my empire by making them a part of it."

He looked between the map and Daeron's face, thinking it over. "If Volantis is the threat, it makes sense to neutralize it as early as we can. Would the armies you're thinking of only be available now?"

"No," Daeron conceded, picking up one of the dragon figurines that represented his people and moving it towards Volantis. "They would still be there. And if I were to leave Meereen...Volantis would surely make a move against this and the other cities I hold."

Ser Barristan nodded, watching his king with the look that told Daenerys he was seeing Rhaegar in Daeron. "Traveling to Westeros with even as many troops as you have now will need a great deal of preparation. If you move on Volantis, you can order those preparations to be made while you're...elsewhere."

Nodding, Daenerys moved the rest of the figures towards Volantis and called to one of the Unsullied stationed nearby to send for her advisers. "You're right, of course, Ser Barristan. I thank you for your council."


	10. The Wall | Volantis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this mostly late at night on my phone so there might be even more typos than normal.

There would have been no great ranging, at least Jon didn't think so, and he planned their approach to bringing more free folk South accordingly. There would still be enough rangers to possibly keep a good patrol near the Wall and Jon would prefer not to slaughter the black brothers if they didn't have to.

Jon went out on many of the missions, Ghost helping as an early warning for when they might need to avoid rangers or Others. Along with the rest of the original group, they were quickly filling the livable space within the Nightfort and having to make plans to take more of the nearby castles. 

While he knew going closer to Castle Black was not the best idea, there was something about taking Deep Lake--a castle paid for by one of his Targaryen ancestors, that appealed to him. Thankfully, by the time they were making that decision, Mance had decided that they needed to protect both sides of the Nightfort and ordered his people to Deep Lake and Icemark.

Jon went to Deep Lake, thinking of Queen Alysanne the entire time, wondering if perhaps that would have been his birth name. Alysanne was one of the few Targaryens still beloved by the North, or who had ever been, after all.

They decided to keep Queensgate between them and Castle Black as a buffer, a few scouts camping nearby to give warning about any brothers of the Night's Watch to head there way, but otherwise it stayed empty. 

There were four more castles to the West before they hit the Shadow Tower, after all, and with every few thousand more free folk they brought through the tunnel in the Nightfort came at least some workers who were putting the castles back to rights and making them more and more inhabitable. 

By the time Jon returned to the Nightfort to stay, he and Val had their own shared room. It was a tiny space, just big enough for two beds, a table, and a musty old trunk for their supplies, but it was more than they'd had. 

Living among the free folk again had gotten Jon used to always being around other people and he stopped thinking anything of it when Val was in various states of undress in their room. He, though, still hesitated to bare himself in front of others, which Val seemed to realize eventually.

"What's the big deal? Got a tail under there?"

Jon flushed. "No, it's just...it's...you know."

Val frowned at him. "No, I really, really don't."

Sucking in a breath, he motioned to his body. "It's...all...girl-like."

She blinked, looking him over, thinking through what he'd said, and then finally seemed to realize it. "Because you have a twat?" She snorted. "You need to stop thinking like those backwards kneelers, Jon. What you have doesn't matter. Are men with dicks who lose them really not men anymore? Are women with twats only defined by that?"

"Well...I suppose...no."

When she motioned for him to come closer, he did, and she wrapped her arms tightly around him, her cheek against his hair. "Your parts are just that, parts. Your soul doesn't care--if it did care about bodies, how could you be a warg? How could you go into that direwolf? Whatever those kneelers filled your head with, you have to let it go. They're not worth it, sitting in their fancy castles selling their children with twats to the highest bidder. They don't deserve you."

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face in her shoulder. He felt like crying, but instead his lips were curled into a grin so big it hurt his cheeks. He'd been so, so right to go to the free folk. As much as he missed his siblings and Winterfell, this was where he belonged, who he belonged with, just like it had been in his last life.

***

"I am the true son of Old Valyria! If you bend the knee to any, it should be me!" Daeron roared at the Volantenes who still resisted her. 

More of the masters died, the city still aflame around them. Her dragons had broken through their outer gates and the Black Walls that protected the nobility, her sellswords and Unsullied taking advantage of the sudden openings to quickly take out the defenders until some finally had the good-sense to surrender.

Volantis had not expected such an attack and, more than that, hadn't expected her three dragons to be so large. She had learned from the last life, her children were always well-fed and free, staying in the less populated areas near Meereen before they started their trip. She would not be so soft-hearted towards humans as to torment her children again.

Soon enough Drogon would be large enough for her _and_ another person. Her fantasies of Visenya became more intense with every passing day. Her niece was out there somewhere, waiting to be freed from the Northern shackles around her.

She didn't know if the Jon of this world being a girl was significant or not, but more than that she was unsure what she actually wanted. To not be the only one to remember would be a blessing, for sometimes as she changed more and more of the world around her she started to wonder if it wasn't all a dream. 

But she did not know when Jon had died in her world--was it right after murdering her? Did an Unsullied spear piece his heart as he cried over her body? Was he executed by the other traitors, his deed used as an excuse to kill off the last Targaryen?

Worse, sometimes, she imagined Jon living a long and prosperous life, finding a new lover and having the family that _they_ should have had. If Visenya did remember their old life, she would be a fool to ever tell Daeron of any past such as that.

Not that it mattered, they were Daeron and Visenya now, their lives would be very different. It was more fitting, truly, there had always been a nurturing part of Jon that would have fit well as a mother and certainly a Conqueror being a man was more natural to Westeros. 

The docks were largely untouched, she noticed once she could finally look away from the executions, the ships that would ferry her troops to Westeros awaiting them. She could take Dragonstone and then fly North, bringing her niece back to their ancestral home. Jon had never minded Dragonstone in the way most others did, another sign of his true blood, and it would be a good place to reconnect.

And to keep Visenya secured, in case she tried to escape or betray her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was sort of to address two different factors I needed to get out into the fic: Jon's view of his body and also Dany's view of whether or not Jon remembers. As an enby I'm pretty big on the idea that a lot of the dysphoria those of us who aren't cis face does have to do with the culture(s) we live in and I think for the FF, who have women warriors and women leaders and do not pass women around as property like in the South, what someone's sexual organs are, which partner can get pregnant, etc, would matter a lot less. And then as for Dany, I hope I made it clear that she has no clue whether Jon remembers or not and will deal with it either way lol


	11. The Wall | Vaes Dothrak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short bit for Dany this time because it's basically rehashing events that happened in the show.

No one had warned Castle Black of the attack.

There was no Jon Snow in this version of the world, no naive boy getting in over his head as a spy. In this world, a small army of free folk slip cleanly through the Gift as the rest distract them north of the Wall. 

It feels as though the battle starts and ends in an instance, but somehow was also too long. Dark Sister sings in his hands as Jon fights off black brothers--many with familiar faces. He tries to only incapacitate, not just so they might have hostages or gain valuable information, but because he can't bring himself to slaughter them.

Not everyone holds back so much. Tormund, Ygritte, and Mance were as bloodthirsty as he had ever seen them. Even Val, who could be so sweet to Jon, was splashed in blood, eyes dancing with malice.

The Others were their ancient enemies, but the free folk and the Watch had been killing each other for millennia. The Night's Watch slaughtering anyone they could get their hands on at times, regardless of whether they raided to the south or not.

Sam wasn't there, at least not that Jon can see, and he hopes that he's holed away with Maester Aemon, safe as both Jon and Mance had stressed the importance of a Maester before the battle and where the Maester's tower was.

But Edd was, and Grenn, and as much as Jon wanted to go straight for people like Thorne and Marsh, he instead went for his former friends. Their swordmanship was even worse than it had been when he was one of them and it took no time at all to knock them both out. Head injuries were unpleasant, but better than death or maiming, which was what the free folk would have given them.

In the end, the battle was more of a slaughter. Castle Black was claimed by the King-Beyond-the-Wall, and any living brothers, except for Maester Aemon, were shoved into the ice cells.

Jon was the first to speak to Maester Aemon, in the early morning hours as things were finally approaching some semblance of order. He was as old and weak as Jon had remembered, shuffling about his room, shoulders slumped.

"Maester, I've come to check on you. I've brought food--stew." He set the bowl down on the table, making enough noise to make its location obvious.

"You're not a wildling." It was more of a statement then a question, but Jon felt it was the best opening he'd get.

"No. I grew up in the North...in Winterfell." 

"Winterfell?" Even though Jon knew that Aemon couldn't actually see him, it felt like he was looking straight through him. 

"Aye...I was raised as Lord Stark's bastard, called Jon. But...I wasn't his," he hesitated, then blurted out, "I am his sister's child."

There was silence for a moment, except for the sound of Aemon's slightly labored breathing. "...Lady Lyanna's...?"

"Princess Lyanna's."

"...You know who I am?"

"Aye, I do. You're my great-great-granduncle, Aemon Targaryen."

Aemon closed his eyes, shuddering, then reached out for Jon. "Please, might I touch your face?"

Jon knelt in front of him, guiding his hands to his face, keeping his own eyes closed. 

"I can barely believe it. You...you have much of your grandmother in you. And Queen Betha."

"Did you...did you know them well?"

"Not as well as I wish I had. I only saw Rhaella a handful of times and Betha...I was at the Citadel, then here at Castle Black."

"It must have seemed like our family would last forever, back then," Jon mused outloud, "that you had all the time in the world."

Aemon made a pained noise, nodding. "It's true. And now...I thought we were only three left. I rejoice to know one of Rhaegar's children lived, that there's one more of us in the world than there had been."

"Just one...my father...he caused--"

"Don't, please. Your father was simply the spark that lit the fire, the fuel was already there. Our House's downfall had been coming for so long, looking back there are a dozen people to place some blame on or more. Prince Rhaegar...he was chasing prophecies. He thought he'd finally found the answer to one he'd spent half his life deciphering, in your mother."

Jon frowned, knowing enough about prophecies to know only fools put weight in them, but his father wouldn't have had his particular experiences. "So he didn't even love her? She was a means to an end?"

"Of that, I cannot say." Aemon ran a hand over Jon's hair, a comforting gesture he knew from his own interactions with his siblings. "Jon, you said?"

"...Aye, Jon."

Aemon hummed, but didn't comment. "Knowing my nephew, you would have been named Visenya, perhaps. He had been convinced your brother Aegon would be the Prince that was Promised, and that he would have sister-wives as the Conqueror had."

Jon pondered that. He had Visenya's sword and she had always been one of Arya's favorites, but the idea of his father having planned for him to marry his brother even before he was conceived soured the name.

"I had thought...maybe Alysanne."

"Ah, after the Good Queen. That would have been a fine choice, as well. It matters little what you say it is, there might be no one left who knows the truth of it."

That made Jon grimace, thinking of his cousins and what they must be going through, a topic he rarely let himself dwell on. "My uncle, Lord Eddard, is he...?"

Aemon clearly hesitated. "I am sorry, my dear, your uncle was caught in a skirmish between the Baratheons and Lannisters. We...had word of his death less than two moons ago."

"Thank you for telling me, Maester. I have been without news for sometime."

"You...you may call me uncle, if you'd like to."

"...I would like that, uncle, I would like that quite a bit."

***

Daenerys set out for Vaes Dothrak with only a small contingent of soldiers and all three dragons. They soared happily in the sky above the group, free and having never known chains. 

_Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor._

A dragon is not a slave.

And Daeron would never allow them to live in chains. These versions of her sons would never know such indignity.

The khals had heard of Daeron's prowess, but they still thought him too pretty and refined to be of any threat. It was easy enough to convince them all to meet with him, they wanted their chance to mock and jeer him.

And it was just as easy as the first time to burn them all.

Daeron left the burning, collapsing building naked and unburnt, listening to the shock and praise of the people he ruled once more. Standing there, soaking it up, memories of Westeros came unbidden. They'd hated Daenerys, feared and plotted against her. But, like with the Dothraki, she just needed to find a way to manipulate them.

Balerion landed in front of her as the Dothraki followed towards her growing empire. Grinning, she dismounted her horse and finally, for the first time in this new life, could be called a dragonrider.


	12. The Gift | Volantis

The free folk expanded along the Wall, only Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower left to take. But that was for their fighting force and there were others they had to concern themselves with, elders and children they didn't want directly facing the White Walkers. 

Jon went along on excursions to find places to set up camps and villages, ranging through the Gift and New Gift, knowing that all the while he was getting closer to Winterfell.

It was not too far from Umber land that they had their first encounter with the Northmen. They were just hunters, but no matter what Jon signaled to try to get the others to back off, the free folk attacked. All but one man died in the fighting, though Jon hung back with his bow at the ready, not taking part but also not willing to let the free folk he'd grown close to die for men who might have betrayed him in the past life.

He approached the remaining man once the battle had settled, Tormund's axe against his throat. "This is the Watch's land, what are you doing here?"

The man had been ranting about "wildling scum" but hearing Jon's cultured Northern voice surprised him into silence and then an answer, "The Watch ain't using it, why shouldn't we?"

"If you'd respected the boundaries, your friends wouldn't be dead."

"As if wildlings ever stopped at borders! Next you'll all be in our lands, in our keeps! Raping our women, murdering our children!"

Jon rolled his eyes, knowing that most Northmen would be no better if given half the opportunity. Ramsay Bolton had been proof enough of that.

"Why go so far? With so many men off to war, the game must be all the more plentiful now."

"War? What war? Sitting around Moat Cailin twiddling their thumbs?"

That was news to Jon. Had Arya and Sansa being safe at Winterfell really been enough to keep Robb from marching South? If so, did that mean he'd survive? No betrothal to a Frey, no breaking that betrothal, no Red Wedding....Jon couldn't be that lucky, surely.

"And that's where your lords are now? There or Winterfell?"

"Whys you lot care? Think you can take on the whole North with your stone and bronze? We'll kill all of you filthy--"

Tormund backhanded the man, lightly for him, but strong enough to make their prisoner almost tip over. "Watch your tongue, Southern--"

"Tormund." Jon gave him a pointed look, then turned back to the man. "We're manning the Wall. We're going to protect the North from the White Walkers. I'd like to know where Robb Stark is so I might speak to him about the real threat."

"White Walkers? You expect children's tales--"

"Where do all tales come from? History, manipulated over time. Bran the Builder, Symeon Star-Eyes, tales told for so long in so many ways that now people believe they're fiction. But sometimes they're the only things that can explain why something exists now. _Why_ would we need the Wall to keep out _wildlings_? Do you think our ancestors were so craven to fear them? Or was it for something else?"

The man looked at him, wide eyed. "You--that's--."

"I grew up on this side of the Wall, I mean to protect it. And that means I need to speak to Lord Stark." Jon leaned in close, ignoring the stench of the man's fear. "Where is he?"

"He's...he's at Winterfell, last I heard. Organizing defenses."

Jon leaned back, nodding. "Thank you." He turned to Tormund. "Make it quick."

He was already walking away as the axe came down on the man's neck, pushing away the dark memories of the executions he'd seen to in the last life. It wasn't time to dwell on the past.

***

Volantis was alight with activity. All around the city, King Daeron III's people prepared for the next conquest of Westeros. 

In a manse set aside just for his use, he had endless meetings with his commanders and courtiers, often taking meals through them and getting the minimum of sleep necessary to function. There was too much to consider, too many things to prepare for.

Daenerys finally called for Illyrio to bring Viserys to her, though the Beggar King was left closely guarded in a small series of rooms, not allowed to venture out where someone other than Daeron, the Unsullied, and a few trusted servants could meet him.

"Little brother! I was worried for your safety!" Viserys came to Daeron, pulling him into a hug.

For a moment, she let herself give into the feeling, basking in what it was like to have a brother who wasn't hurting her. But then she remembered what he'd been like, what he was still like in this world when he didn't get his way, and pulled back.

"Thank you for your worry, Viserys, but it was unnecessary. I was simply gathering strength to go take my throne."

"Your--you are my _younger brother_! I am the rightful King of--"

She slapped him, not hard, but it shut him up. "There is no more rightful King, Viserys. Our father _lost_ our throne and the Usurper who took it from him is dead. Westeros squabbles over it now like vultures over the newly dead. I will go with _my_ armies, with _my_ dragons, and I will _take the throne_ as the Conqueror Reborn."

"This isn't--what are you-- _Daeron_." Viserys seemed at a loss of what to say to his little brother, the boy he'd raised and protected, and used, and would have continued using all their lives.

"You will stay here, you will live in luxury, with servants and guards. After I secure my kingdom, I will allow you to return to Westeros. I will marry you to a noblewoman, make you a lord, give you land and riches. But you will be no king. You have too much of our father in you."

"Our father was--" She slapped him again. " _Daeron_ , please, what is this? What happened to you?"

"I saw the truth of things, Viserys. Of our family's tainted legacy. Of what it would take to take back the Iron Throne. And I realized it couldn't be you who does it."

"I still have the better claim!"

She laughed. "No, you don't. Our brother had _three_ children, Viserys. His youngest daughter was born _and raised_ in Westeros, by a high lord. And once I marry her, no council would ever put your claim before ours."

Viserys stared at her in dawning horror and deep confusion, but she'd had enough of him for one day. Walking away, she made she that the door was securely locked behind her before going back to Daeron's war room and the preparations.


	13. Winterfell | Volantis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, Jon is going to be back talking to people outside of the free folk from now on, so there's going to be a lot of misgendering and deadnaming. I'm going to try to keep it to a minimum, but it will happen.

They stopped back at Castle Black to regroup and plan before Jon set off for Winterfell. Tormund, Val, and a handful of others went with him.

The trip was slow going, as they wanted to stay off the roads just in case, and Jon shared furs with Val to keep warm at night. He blushed the first few times, especially as they would wake up curled around each other, but soon he began to grow used to it. He even began to grow to enjoy it.

Two nights before they would reach his old home, he couldn't sleep, finally struck by fear of what he might face. In this life he'd never joined the Watch, he wasn't a deserter, and yet...and yet he was still a runaway bastard returning having helped Wildlings come South of the Wall, capturing the black brothers and killing Northmen. 

Val offered a distraction and at first he couldn't bring himself to agree to it, too caught up in the wrongness, the weirdness, of his body. But her touches were soft, tentative, and she never pushed him, and soon he found that it wasn't as bad as he thought it might be.

This body wasn't his original one, but he was already a warg, he couldn't let himself feel so trapped by something like a physical form.

That night he managed a few hours of sleep, the next, a few hours more. He was back to blushing as he washed off in a stream before reaching Wintertown, but was glad he had so he didn't look quite so bad when he arrived.

When they reached Winterfell, the guards stopped them--of course they did, they were dressed like peasants even if Jon had gotten them to change from their more obvious free folk clothing, and they were carrying weapons. Ghost solved it, though, soon enough, as Grey Wind came running out of the keep and slammed into his brother.

Robb followed soon after, looking exhausted and confused. He stopped short at the sight of Jon, staring at him.

"...Jo? We thought you were--" he cut himself off, rushing to Jon and swooping him up in his arms, squeezing just a little too hard.

He ushered them inside, not even seeming to realize that Jon's companions were free folk as he was so caught up in the return of his "sister." It was only after their other siblings had joined them, Lady Stark hovering in the background, that Arya pointed it out.

"You've got a sword, Jo! And she's got knives!" Her eyes widened at Val. "Are you a warrior?"

"Aye, I'm a spearwife."

"Like a wildling?"

Val chuckled. "We prefer to be called 'free folk'."

Robb's head whipped away from Jon, to Val and then the men with them. Lady Stark let out a soft gasp, pulling Sansa back with her and trying to get Arya and Bran to go with her. 

"Jo...." Robb gave him a _look_ and Jon ducked his head.

"Uh, so, I've been north of the Wall?"

"What? Why? That's dangerous!"

"It _is_ , but not because of the free folk, Robb. It's...there's _worse_ things out there. Worse than the free folk, worse than wild direwolves."

A confused, worried look was Jon's only real answer and he sighed. "The people with me are my friends, they helped me get here, kept me safe so I wasn't just traveling alone. If you could house them for now, until we head back, I'd appreciate it."

"You're not going back there!" Robb immediately said, and Sansa also cried out a denial.

Arya, on the other hand, asked if she could go along.

By the time they'd calmed down again, servants had escorted the free folk to rooms for the night and Robb and Jon were settled in his solar.

"Jo, this is...."

"Jon. I...I'd prefer it if you called me Jon."

Robb cocked his head to the side, but seemed to decide not to push for even more explanations. "Right, uh, Jon....Tell me what's going on. Why did you leave? Why did you take so long to come back?"

He licked his lips, and then started the explanation he'd been working on for months. "I've had dreams. Dreams of things in the North, things that were coming for all of us, _all_ people. I had to see it for myself."

"What? _Why_? Why you, that makes no sense, Jo--n."

"Because of my bloodlines."

"...Because you're a Stark?"

Jon took a deep breath. "Because I'm a Targaryen."

Robb stared. 

"My mother was Lyanna Stark. I'm your cousin."

He jerked, as if hit, and then shook his head. "No, Jon, that's not--that's not possible. You're my sister!"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jon nodded. "You will always be my brother, Robb, that doesn't change. You're all my siblings. But Eddard Stark is not my sire."

He leaned his arms against the desk, resting his forehead against them. Off to the side, Ghost and Grey Wind were curled together near the hearth.

"I have ice and fire in my veins, Robb. I'm a warg and...and I have within me the blood of the dragon. That matters."

"Jon--"

" _You're_ a warg. We all are. You know it."

He heard Robb let out a shaky breath and looked up at him. 

"Aye, we're all...we're all wargs."

"So is it that weird, that I could dream of the Far North?"

"I...I need time to think about this."

Jon nodded. "It's late. We'll talk more tomorrow. You can talk to Val and the others that came with me and hear their stories. I know it's a lot to take it."

***

"My brother approached the Golden Company once, you refused to help us."

The man across from Daeron's throne seemed nervous at the reminder. " _He_ did, your grace, but he isn't you."

"...Harry Strickland, wasn't it? They call you Homeless Harry."

Harry did not seem offended by that. "They do, your grace. Because I, and many of my men, are in the same position you are--exiled from our homeland, Westeros."

"And you will fight for me, if I promise you land, lordships, in the Seven Kingdoms?"

"In addition to our contract, as there are those among us who would not gain such. We will, your grace."

"Even though I am a trueborn Targaryen, a descendant of King Daeron II, not a Blackfyre?"

"...You are the closest thing there is left to one, your grace." Harry motioned to one of the Unsullied guards who had taken a package from him when he entered. "Which is why, to show our loyalty, I bring you this."

Daenerys raised her eyebrows, but nodded, motioning the guard forward. She watched as he unwrapped it, revealing an ornate sword in a sheath decorated with dragons.

Catching her breath, she descended from the throne, reaching for the sword. Unsheathing it confirmed what she'd suspected--it was Valyrian steel.

"This is...?"

"Blackfyre, your grace. The sword of kings."

Blackfyre. Men had gone to war because of this sword, because it was meant for the _king_. Taking the hilt more firmly in hand, she gave it an experimental swing. It was so much lighter than it looked, incredibly balanced. 

"I believe we have a deal. Speak to my Hand, Ser Barristan, to go over the details." 

She could only imagine how Barristan would feel about dealing with the Golden Company, given their history together, but it would hardly be the least savory thing he'd done over his career.

"We sail for Westeros in a sennight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to turn on the shitty comment moderation system because some of you people are gross transphobes.
> 
> The system makes replying to comments more difficult so I will most likely be replying less than before.


	14. Winterfell | Dragonstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning that Jon is currently in a situation where he's being misgendered a lot.
> 
> Also, a reminder that I had to turn on comment moderation--this makes it harder to reply to comments quickly because of the user flow and I may miss replying to some that I otherwise would have, so apologies in advance to anyone leaving good comments I haven't responded to!

Jon told Robb everything he knew of the white walkers and the Night King. His brother was, naturally, somewhat skeptical, but he couldn't deny that wargs existed and it made it a little easier to ply him with the idea that other magic was real, as well.

When he finally got out of meetings with him, he was bombarded by Sansa and Arya, his sisters wanting to know very different things. Sansa was fascinated by the construction of his free folk clothing and he traded her some with the promise of new tunics and trousers in the Northern style. Arya forced him to do a demonstration with Dark Sister against a few of the opponents who would fight someone they saw as a woman, still.

Surprisingly, there was a good amount of men currently at Winterfell who knew Ned Stark had a bastard, but not the bastard's gender, who just accepted that Jon was a man. It made life much easier for him, even if Lady Stark often looked ready to throw a fit when reminded of it (and she couldn't, Robb had promised to speak to her of that and had apparently been very thorough about it).

"Moat Cailin is garrisoned, our coastlines are patrolled, and every remaining Stark," Robb gave Jon a pointed look, "is safe within our ancestral home."

The way everyone spoke, the way they regarded Robb, was a constant reminder that Ned Stark was dead. That, once again, Jon had missed the chance to confront him about his mother. He may have known his true parentage already, but there were so many questions he still had.

"The Vale has sat out the war in the South. As has Dorne. Lord Tully," Robb had a pained expression on his face as he spoke of his grandfather, "is currently dealing with internal conflict in the Riverlands after initially declaring for Stannis Baratheon."

The meeting was interrupted as the Maester strode in, holding a raven scroll and looking entirely too pale. "My lord, news from the South."

Robb and Jon exchanged looks before Robb held out his hand for the scroll. "This is...." He looked up at Jon, eyes wide. "The Targaryen forces from Essos have taken Dragonstone and declared for...for the Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms."

"What? King?"

Had Viserys somehow survived? Daenerys had not told Jon much of her brother, but none of it had sounded good.

"...Yes. King Daeron III, youngest son of King Aerys II."

_Daeron? That...that isn't possible._

***

Dragonstone fell easily. Stannis Baratheon was somewhere in the Stormlands, having murdered his brother, still, and having been humiliated while trying to take King's Landing. Daeron wished he had retreated to Dragonstone instead of leaving a small garrison of his lesser men, to have the chance to spill Baratheon blood would have been sweet.

Dragonstone itself was basically as she remembered it. Despite everything that had happened, the life she'd led already, it still felt like home.

Perhaps she'd still burn King's Landing down, destroy the Red Keep, and move the court here, instead.

But, no, she may have the benefit of the doubt of being a man in this world, but any association with her father had to be avoided.

And burning down King's Landing had been what caused such a great rift between her and Jon. This time, she would need to be careful of what she did. And what of it Jon saw.

She had ravens sent to all the kingdoms, taking special pleasure in dictating the scroll for the North, making it as polite as possible, with offers of incentives to Lord Robb Stark. She'd been surprised to find out he still lived, but relieved to know he had not been declared King in the North and therefore they could only go so far in their whining for independence. 

Daeron would have all of the kingdoms under her rule, she would accept nothing less.


	15. Winterfell | White Harbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will still be misgendering for Jon in this. Dany's name/pronoun will continue to be fluid and more and more often Daeron and he/him.
> 
> Also, just a quick reminder of the timeline and what changed, as I probably won't bother putting most of it in the fic as Jon will be very distracted lol  
> \--Arya and Sansa did not go to KL, Sansa was never betrothed to Joffrey, Ned went to KL without any of his family  
> \--Bran did not climb and see Cersei and Jaime, therefore he was not pushed from the tower and Joffrey did not send an assassin to finish him off  
> \--Catelyn, though suspecting the Lannisters of killing Jon Arryn, had no reason to go south and therefore never encouraged Ned to work with Baelish or kidnap Tyrion, and the Lannisters never attacked the Riverlands in retaliation  
> \--Robb did not march South, instead he shored up the North's borders and has been watching Stannis vs the Lannisters down in the South. He was therefore never named KitN and is still Lord Stark.

Daenerys was a man in this world. 

Jon was still having a hard time coming to terms with that. He'd thought _he_ was the only thing that changed, nothing he saw in the North or beyond the Wall, nothing he'd heard of the rest of Westeros, had suggested otherwise.

But his uncle had always made sure, he had realized in retrospect, to keep news of the Targaryens across the sea from Jon. He wouldn't have known anything about them if he hadn't been reborn as he had.

Which brought up the biggest question: Was this Daeron the same as Jon was? Was it Daenerys, back from the dead?

And if so...how did she feel about _Jon_? He'd _killed_ her, he'd had nightmares for years of her body going limp in his arms, her blood staining his hands. 

He'd been a kinslayer, a Queenslayer, a vile traitor, no matter his reasons (and he'd had years to dwell on them, to question them, in the last life). Surely if it was Daenerys, if she did remember, she would have flown North and burnt him to ash?

Except...from what little everyone had known of Daeron Targaryen's exploits in Essos, it sounded exactly like what Daenerys could have done...with foresight helping her make her decisions. All the same choices, but better. More thorough, more ruthless, more lasting. Daeron III's kingdom would stretch across the Narrow Sea if she managed to take Westeros. Which, at this point, seemed likely.

She'd come to Westeros with a greater force than she'd even had before, and that had been the largest army Westeros had ever seen. She'd come to Westeros knowing more about the nobility, about the landscape, about the culture than she had before, and that would give her an advantage.

What could she want from _him_? Did she not know? Did she think he was some innocent little bastard girl she could ignore?

Another scroll arrived the next day, a much longer one by messenger. It detailed a great many benefits to the North for reaffirming their allegiance to House Targaryen. And Jon realized, with a sinking feeling, that revealing his true origins to his brother had somehow made him think he could _trust_ another Targaryen. 

Jon would have to tell Robb _everything_ if he wanted to convince him not to trust King Daeron...but he wasn't ready for that. He didn't know if he'd ever be.

***

Daeron went North with a small portion of his ships, his most loyal people, and all three of his dragons. The Lord of Winterfell had offered to meet in White Harbor and he had agreed.

He flew in before his ships, surveying the surrounding area. Everything was so different than her last life, reaving and war had not ravaged the North, not yet, at least, and winter had not set in.

He made sure to land carefully and descended from Balerion with practiced grace. He was dressed in his finest armor, black with rubies in the chest as his eldest brother had once worn, and Blackfyre at his side.

Lord Robb Stark was there to greet him and he, along with almost all of his entourage, looked suitably frightened of his display with Drogon. Except for a slight young woman off to the side, dressed in tunic and trousers with a sword strapped to her waist. Her dark hair was pulled back into a knot at the back of her head, Daenerys knew without even having to see it, and her dark eyes were wary, worried.

Jon. She confirmed it the moment their eyes met. All of her hopes for this second chance, to show Jon the error of his ways and teach him how to be a true dragon would come true.

She went through the greetings easily enough, her niece never a part of them, the North still mistaking her for a bastard Northerner. After taking bread and salt, King Daeron III spun his speech in front of the crowd of his shame at his father's actions, at his wish to have piece with the North and destroy the Lannisters who had killed both his father and Lord Stark's.

And then, because she could not hold back any longer, Daeron brought up that they, as family, should be allies.

Robb's reaction told her he was aware, though none of the other lords or ladies around them seemed to know. When it was revealed, there was fervor and outrage, denial and wonder.

"Lyanna Stark was a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms," Daeron stated, firmly. "And I wish for her daughter, raised here in the North by her uncle, Eddard Stark, to be my Queen."

Jon, who had remained quiet at the lower table to which he was relegated, was staring at her in dawning horror. Daeron couldn't help but wonder what his niece had thought would happen.


	16. White Harbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany's pronouns continue to shift around and Jon continues to deal with dysphoria and being misgendered.
> 
> Reminder that I had to turn on content moderation, the user flow of which makes it harder to respond to every comment. I really appreciate everyone that continues to leave nice comments for me and sorry if I miss any discussions people would like to have!

Jon had expected many things, but not for Daeron to simply announce Jon's parentage to the lords of the North. And especially not for him to announce a betrothal.

He would not, could not, be a queen. Certainly not of the Seven Kingdoms. And it would be all of them, he realized, with a sinking feeling, Westeros wasn't half as torn up as it was last time.

Now that his parentage was known, Jon was thrust forward into the proceedings. He had hoped to be a silent and unremarkable shadow throughout the talks, which of course was no longer possible. Robb reluctantly brought him to the high table for the midday meal, shifting seating around so that Jon was seated where a royal should be.

Which happened to be next to King Daeron.

He wasn't sure what Daenerys was playing at, but she was doing a very good job at pretending like they didn't know each other at all. To anyone watching, she must have seemed either a doting uncle or a galant suitor, depending on their point of views, and Jon spent more time than he'd like trying not to blush or stutter.

Never, not even in Joanna's memories, had he been the focus of such singular attention from such a powerful (and attractive) person. Ygritte had been a force of nature, but just like with Val everything about the free folk and the way they courted was too different to compare.

"I would like to request your presence this evening before the festivities, dear niece," Daenerys said at the end of the meal, just loud enough that the people around them could hear. "There are many things we must discuss."

Jon's breath caught for a moment and he glanced around, panicked eyes landing on Robb, who just gave him an encouraging nod. "I...don't know if that would be appropriate...uncle."

Daenerys smiled gently, but in her eyes Jon could see the amusement at his discomfort. "We'll have a chaperon, of course. I would have none question my behavior with my betrothed."

He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, instead clenching his hands into fists and trying to hide the tension on his face. "In that case, of course I accept, uncle."

When they parted, Jon all but ran back to the room he'd been given, slamming the door behind him. He longed to take a horse and leave, go back to the Wall and the free folk. But he needed the Southern armies and Daenerys would never let him go, besides.

She'd asked to meet him in public, everyone knew it was happening. At least he could be assured she wasn't planning on returning the favor and murdering him. Yet.

***

Daenerys quickly came to realize, as she spoke with the Northern lords, that Jon had seemingly not told a single soul about what he'd been through. Oh, he had apparently told them the free folk had occupied castles along the Wall and that the Others were amassing on the other side of it (to various levels of disbelief), but no one knew about his past life.

She wondered if he had finally learnt the value of a secret. It boded well for their future, if so.

There was a feast that night, to celebrate King Daeron's arrival and, she hoped, to give an appropriate setting for the Lord of Winterfell to swear loyalty to House Targaryen once more. For that, he had a dress sent to Jon's room in their house colors, with the the three headed dragon obvious across the chest. It had been made in a style to allow for slightly different sized bodies to all fit well within it and would thankfully be short enough, as he'd assumed Jon would be of similar size to what Daenerys had been in their past.

Thinking about his niece in that dress, in their colors, lit a new fire within him, one he worked hard to quench on his own. It wouldn't do for Jon to think Daeron lacked propriety. Even in their past life, with Jon a man with experience and power he'd still been very modest.

It would be an adjustment for his niece, but it would happen, he knew. Just as Daenerys had gone from a shy virgin to a confident, sexual creature, so to would Jon, with the right teacher.


	17. White Harbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misgendering and deadnaming still in this chapter.

He'd been tempted to run when the King called on him, pacing in his room, ignoring the dress laid out on his bed. But between Daenerys (who was much taller than Jon had been in the last life, despite Jon now being around the height Daenerys had been in the last life) and the surprisingly spry Ser Barristan, he didn't think he'd actually be able to make a break for it. Especially since the solar Daenerys was borrowing only had one real exit.

Daenerys directed Ser Barristan to stand outside the door, ignoring propriety and her own promise of a chaperon, and stood regarding Jon for long moments. He doubted a single inch of him went unanalyzed. 

The silence stretched on, Jon watching as Daenerys grew more agitated with it, until finally she broke it.

"What do you remember?"

Jon's shoulders slumped. There was only one reason for that question, the confirmation to his own fears. "You're...you've been sent back, too?"

Daenerys scowled and nodded. "I have. I long suspected you were in a similar situation, but hadn't been sure until I saw you yesterday." She glanced him over, giving a soft snort. "You put Arya to shame with that outfit."

He shifted, feeling self-conscious. Maybe he should have put on that dress Daenerys had sent to him for the feast, but he just couldn't bring himself to do so after being truly free for so long. 

"It makes no sense to pretend to be what I'm not. I'm not a woman, no matter what parts I have between my legs." Her eyes widened and he pressed on, "I can't be your Queen, I can't be anyone's wife. I'm still a man."

The silence stretched on again, but this time Daenerys seemed more contemplative than annoyed.

"You owe me, Jon Snow. You owe me a stable throne, you owe me an heir." Her eyes glinted with fire and he knew in that moment that she hadn't changed much at all from what she'd been at the end of her last life. "I don't care what hobbies you keep, I don't care if you spar with the entirety of the Kingsguard or enter whatever tourneys we're near. And there are male Essosi fashions that will pass for feminine enough for an eccentric Queen, if you're going to insist on wearing pants they won't be _that_." 

She paused, then added, as if thinking his surprise was from something else entirely, "We have dragons, no one will question it."

His hands clenched at his side. "You're really okay with that? With this." He motioned at her, at the clothing she wore, the body she was in.

"Oh, dear niece," he winced, but she ignored it, moving closer, "why wouldn't I be? My last body was used against me, a weapon turned on its owner more times than I can count. This body won't be. As a man, as Daeron, no one denies my rights."

"And you'd treat me as you'd been treated? As a broodmare?" 

He just barely managed to move in time to miss the worst of her backhand, gasping and stumbling away. They'd taken his sword from him for this meeting, just a precaution he'd been told, but there was little he could do to even out the odds of a physical fight between them without it.

Daenerys stopped and seemed to collect herself, taking a breath, the tension slowly melting from her. "I love you, Jon. You put a dagger through me and I _still_ love you. We were always meant to be together. If we'd grown up as we should have, a Prince and Princess in Westeros, we would have surely been wed."

"Dany," his voice cracked on her name, "I _murdered_ you."

"Because they made you, Jon. You were manipulated by our enemies, our family's enemies. They needed us both gone and they backed us into a corner. That won't happen again. We know what we have to do, now."

He'd wondered how she could be so accepting of marrying him and now he realized she must have convinced herself he wasn't truly at fault. He didn't know how he felt about that.

"Dany--"

"Daeron, my love. You need to start calling me by my name in this world."

"...I'm still Jon," he stated, firmly.

She stepped closer again and he tensed, waiting for a blow, but instead she slowly raised her hands, showing she meant no threat, and cupped his face in her large, rough palms. "In private you may go by whatever name you wish. In public, you shall be Princess, soon Queen, Visenya."

"Alysanne." She frowned at him. "I'd...prefer a name with ties to the North."

"...That's acceptable." She chuckled. "My Good Queen, you will surely be. Your soft heart was made for that role far more than it was for being a King."

Jon supposed it was the most he could hope for and wondered what she would expect from him in return for so many concessions. Nothing good. Or perhaps he was simply being lulled into a false sense of security, perhaps she'd lock him away in the Maidenvault and never let him leave. Their family had all sorts of horror stories for the women in it.

"We're not really the same people, Dan--Daeron. We don't know each other in this world."

Her hands slid into his hair, undoing the ties at the back and stroking through the loosened curls. "We know more of each other than any two strangers would. And we have time to learn the other parts."

She leaned in for a kiss and he stood rigid, allowing it because he didn't know how she'd react if he pulled away. It...wasn't bad. Not as fierce as Val's kisses, but this was a chaste thing. Their first kiss in these bodies. 

"We have a second chance, Jon. Why else were we given this except to gain everything we are due?"

***

Daeron felt lighter than he had in ages, like he was floating above the floor as he readied himself for the night's feast. His meeting with Jon had only had a few hiccups, but he thought he'd handled himself remarkably well, considering.

Jon would surely be upset when some of his plans came to light, especially the ones for the Starks, but by then Daeron hoped to have his niece wrapped around his fingers, devoted to him once more.

It was a matter of monitoring all outside interactions, of making sure no one tried to use Alysanne against him. Certainly Daeron would never allow a Lannister near her and Sansa and Bran Stark would be taken care of soon enough.

Going along with Jon's odd insistence to continue acting like a man would be worth it if it made him more accepting of his place, of their joint future. And as long as he did not outright embarrass her or refuse to carry her heirs, what did she care what he did? He had been far too trusting in their last life, she couldn't let him truly rule beside her in this one until he'd changed to her satisfaction.

She was dressed in Targaryen colors for the feast and seated in the center of the high table. Beside her was her betrothed--wearing the dress that had been sent to Jon and which he'd been reminded to wear to keep up appearances. She'd had many dresses made for her niece, of course, but she had no tunics or trousers for someone so small. Jon had reluctantly conceded the point, for now, about wearing dresses for formal occasions, and was even wearing a dragon brooch she'd had sent to his room along with the gown.

He would have been lovely if he'd put more effort into his look, with his hair done up and perhaps kohl along his eyes, and she wondered what she could offer him in exchange for complete control over what he'd wear to their wedding.

"Your grace," Lord Robb Stark, seated on the other side of her as was expected from the Lord of Winterfell, drew her attention.

He wasn't anything like his sisters had been in the previous life, in many ways he reminded her of what Jon had been like. That perhaps clouded her interactions with him, but she didn't think it would be much of a problem.

"Yes, my lord?"

His eyes flicked to Jon, then back to Daeron. "I saw that you had three dragons. I was wondering if my...cousin...would be a rider?"

Ah, he wasn't so much nervous about her being upset, she realized, he was holding back his excitement at the idea. She chuckled, startling Jon out of whatever mood he'd fallen into and causing him to pay attention.

"Most likely, my lord. My dear betrothed must needs meet my dragons, first, but I do not doubt that soon there will be another rider."

Robb grinned at Jon. "You'll _have_ to take me up with you."

Jon glanced between them, then rolled his eyes. If nothing else, Daeron might keep Robb Stark alive for his ease at drawing Jon out of his shell.

"Only _after_ I get used to it. I'm not going to kill the Warden of the North because I mispronounced some Valyrian."

"You know that wouldn't happen, Jo, you've always been great at languages."

Daeron raised his eyebrows. Jon hadn't seemed to have any great skill with languages in their last life, but there hadn't been many opportunities to ask him about his education. There was also, he knew, a good chance that Joanna Snow's education had been different, as a girl, than Jon Snow's had been in their original time.

His niece seemed nervous again. "I...yes...but you wouldn't have expected me to have someone with me the first time I rode a horse, dragons are even more dangerous than that."

"Perhaps I can take you up at some point, Lord Stark?" Daeron interjected, addressing Robb but watching Jon's face, the emotional byplay fascinating.

"Oh, I...truly, your grace?"

"We are already family, my lord, and soon we'll be even moreso."

Robb gave a charming smile that in the past life would have been hard for Daenerys to resist. "It would be an honor, your grace."

The highest honor of the night, however, would go to Daeron, just as expected. The Northern lords had conferred before the Targaryen forces reached them and again before the feast began, and now were ready to bend the knee. Robb Stark had never been King in the North, he would not have to reckon with being the next King Who Knelt, and not only did Daeron make sure his show of force was made up of mostly Westerosi exiles who wouldn't seem so foreign, but he was also taking a Northern Queen, for all many still had to come to terms with Joanna Snow's true identity.

It was with little fanfare that the lords of the North took a knee before him and reaffirmed their oaths to House Targaryen. Daeron glanced at Jon often during the ceremony, seeing the melancholy there.

That was something he could work with--where was this easy loyalty, after all, for Jon Snow? Daeron had done very little work, Jon Snow had done a great deal. Daeron was a hated Targaryen, Jon Snow had been, seemingly the son of their beloved Ned Stark. How it must stoke the low fire in Jon's belly, the one hint that he was a dragon underneath his wolf's clothing.

How much easier it would make things, to convince Jon that the North was owed no loyalty from him.


	18. White Harbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to start putting the location in the title of the chapter, mostly for my own reference lol
> 
> Continuing on with the misgendering and stuff. I honestly should probably just say there will be few chapters where there's not at least a little bit, from now into the foreseeable future as all the setup and whatnot for Daeron's kingdom goes on.

"Tell me, Jon, what happened after I died?"

Daeron had insisted they break their fast together and Jon had reluctantly appeared. Since it wasn't a formal setting, he'd gone back to a tunic and trousers, though he left Dark Sister in his room, unsure if he'd be allowed a weapon in his uncle's presence, yet.

They were guarded by two Dothraki who he quickly confirmed didn't know Common and after a few attempts at smalltalk on Daeron's part that fell flat, so apparently he decided to get serious, finally.

Jon had relived those days so many times in his dreams, in his nightmares, it was easy enough to recall, even years later, and the memories began flooding back in. "Grey Worm took me into custody. Eventually I was banished back to the Wall for...for killing you. Bran became King. Tyrion stayed as his Hand, Sam became his Grand Maester, Brienne the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard...."

"And the North?"

"...Sansa became Queen of an independent North."

"Your cousin was King of the Seven Kingdoms, or, should I say, Six Kingdoms, your other cousin Queen in the North, and yet neither of them would pardon you? You were the last living Targaryen, no one put you forth for the throne? Targaryens had done worse than killing tyrants and still taken it before." Daeron's voice was fast, his eyes bright with a fervent light. 

"I...that's...I was a Queenslayer," Jon pointed out. He closed his own eyes, grimacing, "And a kinslayer. I was not fit to be King."

"What of Dorne? The Iron Islands? What became of them?"

"I was told that they were upset, about your death, that I wasn't executed."

"But they stayed part of Brandon's kingdoms? The Iron Islands I'd promised independence to, Dorne who had been looking for an excuse to break away for years, they stayed? When the North was granted independence? When there was a Stark Queen there and a Stark King--one with no right to the throne--in the South?"

Jon just looked at him, helplessly, not knowing how to respond.

They fell into silence again, but this time Daeron was staring at the wall behind Jon's head, deep in thought. Jon forced a few more bites of food down, sinking into the silence, hoping it might continue until Daeron had to leave for further meetings with the lords.

He was never all that lucky when it came to Targaryens, though.

"Tell me, Jon, if not for my Viserion, how would the Night King have gotten through the Wall? If he does not get ahold of one of my dragons this time, how will he threaten the North beyond the Wall?"

Jon paused at that question, frowning as he thought it over. "I...don't know."

"No, nor do I. It was all quite convenient, wasn't it? That the idea of you making a such a risky expedition beyond the Wall was offered, that none of us thought of sending a greater force or, for that matter, of my simply flying us there. That one person from your group managed to escape and get word to me in time. That the Night King had a weapon at the ready that he could use against a dragon."

He stared. "What? You can't mean...there's no way we could have been manipulated into that!"

"Isn't there?" Daeron leaned forward, placing a hand over one of Jon's like a doting betrothed might in a much less serious conversation. "Jon...did you want to kill me?"

Shuddering, he tried to pull his hand away, but she wouldn't let him. "No, I... _Dany_ , I didn't. But I _had_ to."

"Had to? Why did you have to?"

"You were...you were going to destroy others places, slaughter other people, I...." 

_Her lips against his, her body in his arms, blood on his hands, Drogons sounds of grief and rage._

Jon let out a helpless noise, squeezing his eyes shut.

Daeron gave a disbelieving laugh, shocking Jon out of his spiral. Daeron's hand twisted and suddenly their fingers were interlocked, holding on to Jon like a lifeline. 

"I _knew it_!"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Jon, think--who was the Night King after? Brandon Stark. Who benefited the most from what happened? Brandon Stark. _Who can control people's minds?_ "

It felt as though the floor had dropped out below him and suddenly it was he who was using Daeron's hand as that lifeline, instead. "No, that's...no." 

_Daenerys was mad,_ he reminded himself. _Daenerys was mad and Daeron is no different. He hides it better, but it's still there. You've seen hints of it this whole time._

"No, don't, sweet niece, think it through. If the Night Watch still existed for you to be sentenced to the Wall, how could Sam Tarly be Grand Maester? He didn't die, he wasn't released from his vows. Was he even a Maester, at all? And why would Ser Brienne, sworn to Sansa and the only heir to Tarth, join Brandon's _Kingsguard_? Why would Dorne, which had only ever joined the Seven Kingdoms because of a marriage alliance with our family, continue bending the knee to a Usurper who was in such a week position?"

It wasn't true, it couldn't be true, and yet...and yet if it was...that meant that Jon hadn't really killed her of his own accord, didn't it? And that Daenerys...Daenerys hadn't just suddenly gone mad, wasn't to blame for the burning of King's Landing. And Jon so very much wanted to believe both of those points.

"I can't...I need to think this over." 

He stood, abruptly, and finally managed to pull his hand from Daeron's. The Dothraki shifted, but didn't draw their weapons, and Daeron waved them back.

"Yes, you have much to think about, Jon. But not very much time to do it. We'll speak again, soon."

He didn't need any more of a dismissal.

***

It seemed that every meeting with Jon made Daeron feel even better than the last. Had it been like that in the last life between them? He couldn't remember, but certainly it would explain why Daenerys had been so enamored with him, and why the sudden, abrupt shift of their relationship when Jon had found out about his heritage had hurt so badly.

Brandon Stark was surely to blame for that, as well. What Targaryen cared about the relation of who they loved? And Daenerys, who had felt so alone, who had yearned for family, hadn't felt a single thing but threatened by Jon's revelation. That didn't seem natural at all.

They, Daenerys and Jon Snow, were innocent in what happened, that much was clear. And the Starks were to blame, just as they'd been for Robert's Rebellion. 

Now she just had to make sure Jon realized that, as well. And make sure he didn't fall back into their grasp. He had such a soft heart when it came to the Starks, was so forgiving, but if he forgave the Starks their trespasses against their family, he'd only be setting them up to do more, and worse.

Daeron had brought Missandei on this trip. They may not be as close as they had been, but Missandei would always be useful and Daeron wanted to keep her close to ensure her safety. Now, though, knowing that he could get through to Jon and that soon enough they'd be able to leave the brutal wasteland for the South, she was set on a task.

"My niece is in need of language and etiquette lessons, I would request that you act as a companion to her and assist her with the subjects she'll need to be my wife." Daeron paused, regarding Missandei carefully. "I would also like you to let me know of her mental state, her relationships with others, anything curious she might say. She's been in the hands of our family's enemy for most of her life, I worry for her health and safety."

Missandei, sweet Missandei, of course agreed. Despite everything, _Patehz_ , the Break of Chains, could do no wrong in her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending of the show was, of course, completely senseless. The only way everything that happened does make sense is if it was Bran in control of at least some of the people involved (and I think that's probably what would happen in the books in a much less abrupt and confusing manner). 
> 
> However, I'm not saying that is definitely what happened here--Daenerys had plenty of delusions at the end and Daeron has never really gotten over them. Since this uses the complete show as canon, and the show doesn't actually give us any decent hints behind the WTFness of the finale to prove that Bran was manipulating people, I'm going to leave it ambiguous as to whether Daeron is right, Daeron is wrong, or Daeron is partially right (like, maybe Bran manipulated things like getting himself made King and keeping the Iron Islands and Dorne in the kingdoms, but Dany and Jon did all their shit on their own).


	19. White Harbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long Jon bit and short Dany bit.

Jon left the meal with Daeron and returned to his room, harshly throwing on his training gear, grabbing Dark Sister, and heading down to the yard. 

He'd brought a few of the free folk with him (though regretfully left Val back at Winterfell to act as an ambassador) who were always willing to train with him. There was a handful of Northern fighters who would, as well, though none of the Manderly knights. Daeron's people were always willing, not paying attention to what they thought Jon's gender was, though held back as to not do too much damage to their King's future wife. 

It just frustrated Jon more. Would this be his whole life now? He was Ned Stark's bastard in the last life, that was all he was to almost everyone he met. And now, here, would he just be Daeron III's wife? Would he go down in history as a footnote, maybe as the mother of some king?

He barely noticed as he knocked one of the men to the ground, managing to nod politely and ask for another to spar. The one who stepped up was a familiar face--Greyworm. Jon still remembered that face twisted in rage and grief. Still remembered him slaughtering their prisoners in King's Landing, of finding Jon in the throne room after Daenerys' murder and dragging him away.

He'd thought Greyworm would kill him, but for some reason he didn't. He didn't even beat him or anything else. He had wondered, later on, if Greyworm had wanted the others to press the point, if he had wanted Jon to be pardoned so that the Unsullied might suicide against the remaining forces of Westeros and they could wipe each other out.

In his lighter moments over the years barely surviving in the True North, he'd wondered if perhaps some of their camaraderie had remained. But that had most likely been a foolish hope.

Now they were practically strangers. It wouldn't be odd that Jon knew his name, as Daeron had introduced him at one point, but he couldn't let anything else slip. Which was difficult, because in his much smaller body, he needed all of the knowledge he had of Greyworm's fighting style to stay competitive.

When his sword was finally knocked from his hands and the point of Greyworm's spear rested at his throat, he finally let himself relax. He took the offered hand to help him up and drank deeply of the waterskin thrust into his hold. Glancing up to thank the person who'd given it to him, he realized Missandei had joined them at some point. He never saw her around Daeron like he used to with Daenerys, but she was still present during the formal events.

"You are upset," Greyworm stated, where others might ask.

Jon licked his lips, then nodded. "Aye, I am."

"Because of the King?"

For a moment Jon thought of denying it, but then he realized that this might be a good opportunity to actually learn about Daeron, not just try to work with what he remembered of Daenerys. 

"Aye. Is he always so...intense?"

Greyworm's lips twitched in a move Jon decided was probably a grin. "He is. He has always known exactly what he wanted and exactly what to do to get such things. When he marched through Essos...I am Unsullied, but I realized even I had never known what it was like to be part of an unstoppable force until then." He exchanged a glance with Missandei, then leveled a look at Jon. "You, too, he has always wanted."

Jon grimaced. "I didn't even know he was out there."

"Are you displeased? To marry the King?" Missandei asked, her shrewd eyes watching him closely.

"I...don't know if I'd be pleased to marry anyone." He motioned to the training yard around them. "I had hoped not to have to. I will make a poor wife."

She frowned. "Because you enjoy fighting? It is true, I have seen few women here who do, but I was under the impression that the...highborn here also could do as they wished."

He wondered if she had almost said "masters," if in her head that wasn't what she compared all of the lords and ladies to. She wouldn't necessarily be wrong, either. As a bastard and then a brother of the Night's Watch he'd known enough smallfolk to know they didn't get much say in their lives.

"Not entirely. Being a...princess, or a queen, that does mean it's harder for people to speak out against you...to your face. But you're still judged and found wanting if you don't conform." He shook his head. "It doesn't really matter, Daeron is the head of my family, he chooses who I marry." Missandei's frown reappeared for a moment at that. "I'll just have to learn to live with it."

Jon thanked Greyworm for the match and took his leave, surprised when Missandei followed him. Soon she revealed that Daeron had sent her and Jon felt torn. On the one hand, she was almost certainly meant to spy on him. But, on the other hand, she had been Daenerys' dearest friend in the last life and he didn't know if perhaps some of her tenderness remained, if Daeron wanted Jon to know Missandei like Dany had.

***

It was disgusting, how easily the Northmen bowed to Daeron as their King when they sneered at Daenerys as their Queen. Trueborn and male, they couldn't get enough of him. All of the meetings went smoothly, with only a few hiccups from those who had developed a lingering dislike of the Targaryens. That Alysanne was trueborn had thrown many of them, making them unsure how to react.

"I will have some supplies sent to the Wall," he assured them, hands spread out before a map of Westeros. "But I must first take back King's Landing before I can commit troops to the North. As long as a Lannister holds the throne, none of us will be safe."

In what Daeron was willing to acknowledge made sense, most of the Northmen who seemed to dislike Targaryens the most had loved Ned Stark. They had fought beside him in the Usurper's war, had used their murdered lord and heir, and stolen daughter, as a rallying cry. 

And they very much wanted revenge against the Lannisters for Ned's execution.

Robb, too, was eager for it. A greenboy still in this world, he needed to prove his worth to his lords _somehow_ and Daeron was presenting a good opportunity--the largest army Westeros had ever seen against an enemy everyone hated. It would be relatively safe for a lord, as far as war went, and a righteous cause.

Daeron almost wished Jon was there beside him, but didn't know how Jon would explain having knowledge of large scale battles. Certainly he'd helped the free folk take some of the Wall, but that wasn't anything like the battles of his last life.

Thinking of Jon made him ache for him. Daeron wanted to feel how their bodies fit together, wanted to hear all the noises Jon could make in this world.

It was all he could do to force himself back to their planning session instead of dismissing the others and calling for Jon. His niece needed time, had to be reeled in slowly, not having a chance to notice how well-contained he was until it was too late for Jon to break away.


	20. White Harbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up between Jon and Daeron!

Jon was given freedom from Daeron for the rest of the day and well into the next one. He'd thought maybe he'd even have a completely Daeron-free day until he'd stepped into the training yard in the evening to burn off some extra energy and Daeron was there.

He tried to look nonchalant as he approached, though his eyes flickered around the other people there and over Daeron's face constantly, trying to read his mood. "So that's Blackfyre?" He nodded to the sword.

Daeron smiled at him, it would have been a kind look if his eyes weren't devouring Jon where he stood. "It is. And that, Dark Sister?"

"Aye." Jon glanced at the guards and when Daeron nodded at him he unsheathed his sword.

It was shorter and thinner than Blackfyre, but that was no surprise. Dark Sister had been wielded by Visenya and Blackfyre by Aegon I. Both had the tell-tale dark ripples of Valyrian Steel and wicked sharp edges, but that's where their similarities ended.

"United again. It seems fitting, doesn't it? That we must re-conquer Westeros and the swords of the Conqueror and his sister-wife found us for the task?" Daeron stepped closer, ignoring that Jon had a sword in his hands, and stroked a lock of his hair that had fallen from his the tie out of Jon's face. "Would you spar with me, my dear?"

Jon shivered at the touch, hoping his eyes stayed cold. "With live steel? I don't think your guards would like that."

Daeron chuckled and stepped away, sheathing Blackfyre before handing the whole belt off to one of those guards. "Tourney swords? I have heard your quite fearsome with a blade, but I have no desire to mar my bride's skin."

There was no real way out of it. If Jon backed out, those watching would think him craven, may even blame it on the weakness of women. Daenerys had never fought with a sword in their old lives, Jon had no idea what she could do in this one, but just the little bit he'd heard made him wary.

"Very well." 

He sheathed Dark Sister again and handed it off to one of Daeron's men, knowing that it had far less chance of being misplaced in their fanatical hands. There was a decent selection of tourney swords and he immediately went for his favorite from earlier practices, twirling it from one hand to the next to reacquaint himself with the feel.

When Daeron was ready, they began without ceremony.

It was immediately clear that Daeron was _good_. There had been many well-known swordsmen of their blood line, of course, the Dragonknight who Jon had often played at being as a child and even Daemon Blackfyre, the youngest man to ever be knighted by a king. But from what he'd known of Viserys, he was no fighter, and so he had hoped perhaps Daeron was only slightly better than that.

Instead he was perhaps better than Jon had been in their last life, except that Jon had rarely fought a skilled opponent just to play with them. That would be Daeron's weakness, because as good as he was, he wasn't taking Jon seriously. Maybe it was his size, maybe it was his gender, maybe he just thought that Jon would not be able to bare hurting Daenerys again, even at play.

He was wrong to underestimate him.

Jon used his size and speed as he'd been training to do, and when next Daeron's blade met his he let it through, ducking under it and swinging upward, his sword stopping a hairsbreadth from Daeron's crotch.

He smirked up at him as he stilled, probably already aware of just how much it hurt to be hit in any way there. Almost the entire training yard had fallen silent, except for the handful of free folk, snickering in their corner.

Daeron met his eyes, the purple searing into his, but there was no anger in the gaze, simply amusement. "I yield."

They slowly lowered their weapons and Jon stood back up, cautiously turning the sword over to a guard and collecting Dark Sister. 

"Impressive, niece." When Jon turned back around, their portion of the training yard had mostly cleared out, and he wondered what silent dismissal Daeron had managed to give the crowd. "Though, if you were that interested in getting so...close...you hardly had to do so that way."

Jon flushed, turning back away from him, hands moving in anger as he strapped his belt back around his waist. Then Daeron's front pressed against his back and he knew he'd made a mistake taking his eyes off of him.

"It was more difficult than I thought, fighting you. You're skilled, yes, but, gods, you're so beautiful." Daeron's voice had a reedy note to it and only a slight shift in his position told Jon exactly how he was feeling. "I can't wait to see you on the battlefield, that fire in your eyes, Dark Sister in your hand, black and red armor lovingly protecting you from harm."

"You would let me fight like that?"

"You were _made_ to fight like that, no matter what form you're in. Any fool can see that truth."

His hands encircled Jon's upper arms, moving up and down them, proprietary but a little comforting, too, he thought. Daeron could do anything he wanted to Jon right then, only his own guards remained with them and few would say anything about a King taking advantage of his betrothed, but instead this was all he did.

Perhaps his own slow courting of Daenerys in their past life had slowed Daeron down in this one. He could only hope.

***

Holding Jon in his arms, feeling their bodies fitted together so well, Daeron could barely resist embarrassing himself somehow. He'd dreamt the night before, Daenerys again on the boat going North, with Jon Snow visiting her room. He'd been tender, careful, making sure that everything he did was something she would enjoy. If that was the way that Jon thought first times should be, Daeron could manage to repress himself long enough to make it so.

He leaned down, pressing his face into Jon's hair, breathing in the scent of him. Would he smell like this when he took him? Would his face show the same fierce concentration that it did during their fight?

"Lord Stark has offered Winterfell's Godswood for our wedding, I thought perhaps we would hold it a sennight after we arrive there. Just enough time to prepare, but not so much that we are imposing on your cousins." He wished to leave Stark territory as soon as they could, for as long as Jon was with the traitors they could manipulate him.

"Don't you want a Sept?"

Daeron scoffed. "There is hardly a Sept in the North grand enough for a royal wedding. We will be married a second time under the Faith once we retake King's Landing. But I would make you my Queen now, so none can doubt us."

Jon shivered and shifted, twisting in his hold to face him. Daeron allowed the move, wrapping his arms fully around him and staying pressed close. Jon's face could not seem to decide on one expression, flitting from look to look, Daeron unsure why.

"Aren't you happy, Jon?" he pitched his voice low, though the guards closest to them didn't speak Common. "To be married at Winterfell, before the heart tree you spent your youth praying to--that your mother did, as well."

"No, that's...that's not the problem. It's just...very soon, don't you think."

"Your uncle barely knew Catelyn Tully before marrying her. And we've known each other for much longer than anyone here knows, haven't we?"

He shuddered again, head falling to rest on Daeron's chest. Hiding his face, surely, but taking comfort in his touch as well. Like this he was so small, so fragile, at odds with the opponent he'd faced with a sword in his hands.

"Gods, Dany, we can't just...we're not the same people."

"Aren't we? Isn't this our second chance?"

"Is it? Or is this our punishment for fucking things up the first time?"

Daeron froze, heart thumping loudly in his chest as he was forced to realize that, perhaps, Jon did not view this in the same way. "...do you think you're being punished?" 

"I...don't know." 

He pulled back, catching his hand under Jon's chin and raising his head to look at him. "I love you. And you love me. In the last life our enemies manipulated us, broke us apart, and we failed because of that. A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. And we don't need to be alone. Not anymore." He'd never let Jon pull away from him again.

Jon's eyes were wide, watery, and for a moment Daeron feared he'd make Jon cry. But instead he just shook his head and pulled completely away, ducking under Daeron's arm.

"I need to go. I need...time."

"And the wedding?" 

He didn't want to postpone it, though he knew he would. Jon was meant to be savored, cherished--he was a dragon, not like the worthless ladies of Westeros who called themselves highborn but had worthless blood within them.

"...A few days, a few moons, what does it matter? Plan it when you want it, your grace."

He walked away and Daeron let him, contemplating their encounter.


	21. White Harbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that the names of Daeron's dragons are the same as the Aegon I, Visenya, and Rhaenys' dragons, as he had no reason to use Drogon or Viserion as a name in this lifetime. Drogon = Balerion, Viserion = Meraxes, Rhaegar = Vhagar.

There was one thing Jon wanted to get out of the way before they left for Winterfell. One thing he actually needed Daeron's help with. After their...encounter...in the training yard the day before, he wasn't sure _how_ he felt about him, but it did make approaching him slightly easier. If anything else, he knew Daeron wanted him willing, which was...a relief, considering how Jon hadn't actually had a say in their betrothal.

"I think, if you mean for me to have a dragon, I should meet them before we head out."

Daeron, of course, gave a charming smile, seeming pleased that Jon had sought him out. "I agree, that way you can work on your bond on the road."

"Right, then. When can we go to them?"

He chuckled, stepping in close so he loomed over Jon. "Ah, while I agree, that doesn't mean I won't require some sort of payment."

Jon's stomach dropped. "P-payment?" It didn't matter how important being a dragon rider would be, how incomplete his mind felt without that bond beside his bond with Ghost, he wasn't going to whore himself out for it.

"Yes, payment." Daeron stroked his cheek and Jon's mood grew colder. "I want you to start calling me 'uncle'."

"I will not--what?" Tilting his head to the side, Jon tried to make sense of the unexpected request.

"You need to accept who and _what_ you are. Part of that is dragonriding, but part of that is acknowledging our relationship."

"It's just that...." Jon trailed off with a flush. "Isn't it weird to you? You want to marry me, but you're my _uncle_. Isn't it easier to ignore that part?"

Daeron sighed. "That's exactly what I mean. It shouldn't feel weird, it should feel natural. You shouldn't need to ignore it, this is what we, what Targaryens, are supposed to do."

He could still remember hesitating when Daenerys went to kiss him in their last lives, pulling away after the kisses when he wasn't strong enough to prevent them. The withering of his heart when he realized he couldn't possibly continue with his fantasies of marriage. The self-disgust, knowing she was his father's sister, knowing he'd fucked his aunt.

"How can that feel natural? It's anything but!"

"Who were my parents, your grandparents, Jon? Who were their parents? I would think being uncle and niece would be easier for you. If your father had won the Usurper's War, you may have even been betrothed to your sister, to guarantee your loyalty to your older brother's rule."

Flinching, he acknowledged the truth in that--sibling marriages were common in their family, they might even be the most common type of marriage. And knowing their relationship had never actually stopped him from wanting Daenerys, it had just made him feel guilty for doing so. 

Daeron had him questioning everything he'd thought was natural about himself, now. Had Ned Stark raised Jon in the way he did to try to prevent him from appearing too Targaryen? Were there morals he had made sure to instill in Jon specifically to hide his blood? If he'd been raised in the Red Keep by his birth father, would he have cared what Daenerys was to him?

"...Fine, I'll do it, let's go see the dragons."

Daeron didn't move, raising his eyebrows and giving a motion to prompt Jon to speak more. Realizing what he wanted, Jon grimaced.

"...Uncle Daeron, could we go see the dragons?"

Approval was a quick kiss on the forehead and then Daeron formally presenting his arm for Jon to grip. He did, reluctantly, and they left the castle for the forests beyond.

***

Daeron watched as Jon approached his children. Balerion had already sniffed at him and then gone back to the goat he was eating, but the other two were showing more interest.

They hadn't had the chance to do this in their last lives, there had been Rhaegal and only Rhaegal when Daenerys had decided that her lover might be able to become a dragonrider. Now, Vhagar and Meraxes seemed to be at odds, snapping towards each other when one tried to move closer to Jon than the others. 

Her poor babies, knowing there could only be one dragon for a rider.

Jon glanced back. "What should I do?"

Daenerys had been dismissive of Jon's questions in their last life, but Daeron liked when Jon asked him for advice, for help. It might have served Daenerys better to make him more reliant on her.

"Which do you feel drawn to?"

At that Jon seemed to concentrate, his eyes closing and a hand reaching out before him, wavering as though a sign of his concentration. Just as she thought to say something else, Meraxes pushed forward, shoving his muzzle against Jon's hand. And she should have always known her sweetest son was the one truly meant for her love. Yet another thing the North stole from him, when the Night King murdered Viserion.

Jon gasped, eyes snapping open, but he did not back away. Daenerys had been a fool to have not realized Jon had the blood of a dragon within him the first time he'd touched her sons. Who else would react in such a way to them? Even Tyrion had been more wary and he'd been obsessed with dragons.

"Missandei will know to come out here when it is time for you to prepare for the leaving feast. Until then, I think a ride is in order."

The anticipation in Jon's eyes was unmistakable. And again, he wasn't like the others who had ridden with Daenerys, there wasn't fear when he thought of climbing onto a dragon's back. Only the excitement of a Targaryen, connecting to the distant relative that a dragon was.

While Jon mounted Meraxes, clumsy from lack of practice, Daeron called Balerion to him and easily climbed upon his back. He could swear that Balerion felt excited, too, watching Jon settle in and finally take flight. Did he know what it meant, that there was another dragonrider? Or was he simply pleased for his brother?

This ride was quick, Daeron did not take them to any beautiful out of the way oasis, heart clenching at the thought of waterfalls and caves. Instead he took Jon through acrobatics in the sky, testing how much he retained from his last life, though that was barely any experience at all.

They landed as the sun began to set, Missandei waiting patiently near the treeline. 

"I had forgotten what a rush that is," Jon praised, all but swooning into Daeron's arms, causing his heart to race for other reasons. "What it felt like to _feel_ a dragon in my head and the air rushing by us. To look down and see the world in miniature, like it was just the Painted Table below us."

Daeron kissed Jon, then, unable to stop himself and Jon didn't protest. His eyes closed and he gave in, leaning into Daeron on tiptoes. When he finally seemed to realize what was happening, Jon pulled away, a blush painted over his face, but no accusation in his eyes. He knew eventually Jon would come around once he started to realize how much the Starks had manipulated him.

"Missandei, please see that my niece is bathed and clothed appropriately tonight." Daeron shot Jon a teasing smirk after he'd said the word "niece," receiving an eyeroll in reply. "And make sure that anything the princess has brought along is packed. We leave early tomorrow."

"You know, I can order people around myself," Jon muttered beside him as they walked back to the castle.

"I know, dear." No amount of surliness on Jon's part could ruin Daeron's mood at the moment. "And remember our agreement tonight." It would mean even more, he knew, if Jon was calling him "uncle" in front of others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going with the weird show canon of incestuous relationships being frowned upon in Westeros even though in the show canon there were still a bunch and it's brother-sister relationships in the books that are the issue.


	22. The North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, travel chapter, and then probably one more, and then, finally, Winterfell!

"So, you rode a dragon." 

Robb was watching him with such a look on his face that Jon was suddenly terrified of what it would be like once he got back to Winterfell and Arya found out.

"You knew I would," he pointed out, glancing around them to confirm that only Stark guards were close to where they rode, most of the others too intimidated by the presence of Ghost and Grey Wind beside them.

"I knew you would, but it's not the same as _knowing_ you have!" Robb frowned. "I guess it's even after you told me, even after this King shows up and confirms it, I didn't really believe you were a Targaryen."

Jon bit the inside of his lip, staring at the soldiers marching ahead of them. "I can understand that. It took a long time for me to accept it, too."

"As much as I hate that you ran away and became a wildling," he wrinkled his nose, "it must have been a good place to have an identity crisis."

"It was."

It had been, in the last life. After leaving the Wall for the last time the quiet, open expanses of the North and the free folk who didn't care about bloodlines had helped. He'd never gotten time, before that, to really think about who he was, who his parents were. 

He'd wished Sam had told him right when he'd gotten to Winterfell instead of waiting. That he'd had at least that amount of time to get through it before the Night King attacked, because as soon as that happened it seemed like there wasn't time to think.

Sam had said he'd told him because Bran had directed him to...was that a sign of the manipulations Daenerys believed in? Could Bran, or the thing that had been in Bran's body, have not wanted Jon to have the time to accept himself? How much of his rejection of Daenerys had caused her spiral downward? How much did his hesitance to accept himself, to open himself up to that very Targaryen bond as a dragonrider, possibly weaken Rhaegal during the fight against the army of the dead and his flight to the South?

Shaking his head to ward off thoughts that could never do him any good since he'd never be able to find out the truth, Jon turned his attention back to Robb. "I heard you approved a wedding in the Godswood."

Robb's cheeks lit up. "I thought it would be a good start. Have our gods on your side, show the bannermen that you were a true Northerner. And make all the Southerners squirm."

He chuckled, reaching over and giving Robb a light shove. "And it definitely had nothing to do with what Sansa would do if she somehow missed a royal wedding?"

His little sister lacked any of the coldness of who she had been at the end of the last life, the greatest tragedy she'd experienced was their father dying in the South, but even for that, she had no reason to feel guilty as she had before. Instead she could still find joy in her hobbies, in her dreams.

"...Okay, you've got me! Could you imagine? It would be scarier than those dragons!"

"The dragons aren't that bad."

"I take back everything I said, you are definitely, obviously, a Targaryen."

"Hey!"

***

Daeron had sent some men to the Wall, to speak with the free folk there about forces and supplies, and now was reading the few reports that had made it back as they rode. The pace to move such a large procession was slow and so it was no real bother to do work while riding. If nothing else, it kept Daeron focused. This castle needed more food, this castle needed more weapons, this castle needed more abled men...simple facts to dwell on, instead of the past life that haunted him more and more with every mile they crossed.

This time Winterfell would greet their rightful monarch properly, he knew, but he couldn't help but think of what Daenerys had faced--the prejudice, the mistrust, the backstabbing. Every single Northerner had ignored that she'd come, out of the goodness of her heart, to save them. All they could see was the Mad King's daughter.

Jon may still see Winterfell as his home, but to Daenerys it was surely one of the seven hells.

And in that castle, waiting to meet Daeron, was this world's Sansa and Bran Stark.

They couldn't just be killed right away. Not because Daeron couldn't order it and have it take place, but because Jon would be suspicious. Jon who was coming along so nicely. No, at the very least Daeron would need to wait until after they'd left and make it look somehow like an accident. Maybe have one killed and then months later, the other. 

He didn't want to wait, he didn't want to give them time to mature into who, what, they had been, but unless he could get through to Jon that would be what he had to do. He just had to keep reminding himself he was years ahead of where he had been in the last life, years ahead of their own growth--Bran had not gone past the Wall, yet, Sansa had never gone South. He had time.

If he didn't make himself believe in that, he'd surely go mad and kill them himself as soon as he saw them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two mini rants, now lol 
> 
> I think some people have taken their own hang-ups and refused to acknowledge their not everyone else's. Submissive does not automatically mean female. If I wrote Jon and Dany's interactions in a non genderbent fic none of you would bat an eye (in fact, I already have, this is how I write the two of them in almost everything with a Dark Dany). Daenerys was a very dominant person and Daeron has turned that up to 11. Jon has never been very dominant, especially in relationships, and has always disliked having power. Him being submissive to a dominant person that he feels a ton of guilt towards is hardly him "acting like a woman." _Men can be submissive._
> 
> As to him not commenting every single time Dany misgenders him, that has literally been happening with Jon all fic--he has not stopped any of the people from South of the Wall from misgendering him, the most he's done is ask Robb to call him "Jon" (though arguably "Jo" isn't gendered so that's more of a preference thing). I mean, look how much shit Arya got for being a tom boy, Jon has a lot of huge reasons to stay more or less closeted _for his own safety_. I have a tag to warn about misgendering for a reason. There's also a chapter where Dany literally guilt trips him into agreeing to wear dresses and let people call him "princess" in exchange for eventually getting more freedom so everyone should have known this was going to be happening. 
> 
> Just because he's not always displaying his discomfort to Dany in a way that someone with extreme delusions can interpret correctly does not mean he's perfectly fine with it all.


	23. Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Deadnaming for the next few chapters.
> 
> This one was hard because I kept debating just how much I wanted to put in it lol

Robb hadn't sent word ahead about Jon's revealed identity, knowing it would be best to break it to Lady Stark in person, and Jon had to agree. He hung back a bit from the main group, despite Daeron's annoyed glances, as they were welcomed, as a bastard might. Lady Stark paid him no mind at all, not knowing yet the truth that was just lurking under the surface, and instead showered Daeron with Southron courtesy.

Daenerys had known all about Jon's life at Winterfell, he'd confessed to her on a few occasions the way Lady Stark had treated him. How terrified he became of her growing up. Whether that was why Daeron was acting so coldly to her, Jon didn't know, but he thought it might be.

As soon as the greetings were over and the groups began to disperse, his younger siblings found their way to him. They quizzed him on his trip, on the Essosi, and on the King, and he tried to answer everything without giving too much away.

As they spoke, he studied each of them, his heart aching as he wondered how they might react to his parentage. Would they feel betrayed? And by him? Would they pull away? This Sansa, Arya, and Bran were nothing like the ones who had known in his last life, after all, and poor Rickon hadn't lived to find out.

"What's the matter?" Arya was scowling at him and emphasized her words with a not-soft punch to his arm.

"Ow! Nothing, I was just thinking."

"Brooding, you mean."

"You'd be brooding, too, if you left the peace of White Harbor for the little monsters that live here."

"Hey!"

He ran and Arya, Bran, and Rickon gave chase. He thought he even caught the soft song of Sansa's laughter following them.

It wasn't until later, when he'd gone back to his room to change, that he ran into an issue.

Robb was waiting for him outside of them, looking exhausted and hurt. "I told mother."

Jon winced. "Really? I thought you'd wait."

"Until someone else lets it slip? When Ser Barristan calls you 'your grace' or the King talks about you as his niece? No, I had to get it out of the way as soon as possible. Control the information."

"I guess you _can_ be clever sometimes." He shoved open his door and motioned for Robb to join him inside. "Come on, we can send someone to bring a wineskin and--"

His room was empty. The furniture still sat there, but none of those items that were _his_ remained, not even his trunk.

"Mother and the King both thought it best if you lodged where he's staying, in the guest suites."

Jon opened his mouth, but couldn't figure out what to say in response. He was still _family_ , he didn't want to be treated like a visiting royal. He wanted the room he'd always known, not too far away from the family section his siblings (cousins) lived in.

"Jon...come on, it's not that big of a deal. You can still go everywhere you could before, no one is going to bar you from the crypts or the family wing." Robb wrapped his arms around him from behind, holding him carefully. "The bedroom's bigger, over there. And you've got a solar. Shared with the King, but it's more than you have here. And you'll have his servants waiting on you, so you won't have to deal with all of ours gossiping."

"Aye, you're right." He forced his face into a calm mask. "I suppose I should head over there, get ready for dinner."

"Aye, we'll be having a feast to welcome the King." Robb patted his midsection. "All of this feasting is going to make me as big as Lord Manderly!"

"That just means more dawn sparring in the training yard for you, Lord Stark!" Jon teased, answering Robb’s attempt to lighten the mood with his own. "Now help me find Val so I can let her know where I'll be staying."

***

Daeron felt like there was an inferno inside of him that he was barely keeping contained. His expression was controlled, his voice coldly polite, but in his mind he was raging.

It started with having to face Lady Stark, the woman who had abused Jon, who had helped shape him into the uncertain creature that was easy prey for Sansa and Tyrion in their last life. He was King and she the mother of his Warden of the North, and so Daeron was forced to go through all of the motions.

Greeting Jon's cousins was just as bad. Sansa looked like an empty-headed girl, but Daeron knew not to trust that, beneath the facade was the cruel woman from their last life waiting to emerge. Arya and Bran both showed more emotion in their quick greeting than they had in all the time she'd known them before, but that too could be deceptive. It was Bran's destiny to become the Three Eyed Raven and someone who could train as a Faceless Man didn't simply develop that attitude from a handful of events, that was a lifetime of work to get to that point.

Rickon she hadn't known, though she remembered he had died in Jon's arms. He'd told her of that, of the battle that had slaughtered so many free folk and ushered in Sansa's first betrayal. And this boy was younger even than that one and had known little grief.

He and Robb would be more than enough for House Stark to continue. A lord and heir.

Daeron wanted to speak to Jon immediately after, but he was swept off by his cousins and he was left with the lords. Again.

Robb himself showed Daeron to the rooms his mother had prepared and it gave him the opportunity to ask after Jon's rooms. Seemingly surprised, Robb admitted he was living in small quarters near the family wing and Daeron didn't need to say much to make it clear that was unacceptable.

Every moment here was a moment that he had to be pulling Jon away from the Starks, after all. And proximity was part of that.

Hours later, as his servants dressed him for the feast, Jon finally deigned to pay attention to him.

"Princess Alysanne," Ser Barristan announced from outside the door and Daeron waved him in, pleasure filling him as he thought that soon that would be "Queen Alysanne."

"Jon, what have you been up to?"

Jon shifted, glancing around the room at the servants, at the half-opened trunks of finery, anywhere but at the half-dressed Daeron before him. It was charming in its own way, how modest he could be.

"I met with the free folk here, checked in on them. They've been working with our maester to document what they know of the lands beyond the Wall and the white walkers."

"Oh? Make sure to send Missandei to the maester, she can help transcribe the stories. And I wouldn't mind copies for our library in the Keep." He watched as Jon gave the slightest flinch, a tell whenever Daeron reminded him they would be living in the South, he thought. "I spoke to Robb, we'll be announcing your parentage at the feast to those remaining who don't know."

"Already? I wanted to be able to tell my--cousins in person."

Daeron smiled, pulling away from the servants as they finished dressing him. "I can hardly have you sitting in the back of the room among the squires. Or treated like a bastard by the hypocrites of the North."

“...Daeron,” Jon glanced at the servants and took a breath, banking the fires within him so he didn’t make a scene in front of strangers, surely. “I would rather one night of such treatment and the ability to tell my family on my own terms. You should have discussed this with me before making a decision.”

His eyes narrowed. “Ah, like you should have discussed it with me before telling Sansa last time? No Varys here to poison me, no Tyrion to betray me, but you’re here. Should I worry about a knife to the heart?”

Jon flinched away, turning his back to him, and Daeron’s anger flared brighter. “That is _not_ what this is about. They are children. The only grief they’ve known is the loss of their father.”

“So we should give them more concern, since their lives are so much safer than ours? Our parents are dead, Jon, our fathers murdered, our mothers perishing from childbirth. _We’re_ the ones who should be treated better for our lots.”

“Oh, come off it, Dany.” 

Jon turned around again and motioned at the servants to leave them. They glanced at Daeron, who nodded, and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind them. None of them knew Common and they had not been loud enough for Ser Barristan to make out, but Daeron could appreciate Jon’s concern for privacy. 

“You only think of yourself as a victim, like everyone else is wrong and you’re right. What did you say? That we knew good and no one else did? That we’d bring fire and blood to any that opposed us? This is a new life, if it _isn’t_ our punishment, then why are you making the same mistakes?”

He scowled and moved closer, looming over Jon. “Mistakes? What mistakes have I made, Jon? I have taken my kingdom in Essos faster and cleaner than in the last life, and taken cities I hadn’t had, then. Was my mistake coming North? Should I have left you all to die to the Others or starve through the winter?”

“Would that you did! You act as though you’re our savior, but you haven’t done anything but force Robb to bend the knee!”

“I am his King! Torrhen swore allegiance to _our_ family! For three hundred years we ruled!”

“If you think that the Rebellion wasn’t just, you’re as mad as--”

Daeron barely stopped his hand before it would have made contact with Jon’s cheek. Jon’s dark eyes were wide, fearful, as he realized what was happening and stumbled away.

They stared at each other for a moment, both seemingly at a loss for what to say, and then Jon was hurrying from the room.

That wasn’t how Daeron meant it to go. But hearing Jon of all people claim that he was mad...he couldn’t take it. 

But he’d come around, when given time Jon always did. Daeron just had to watch his temper. Only a dragon could wake the dragon like that and it had been too long since Daeron had experienced that.


	24. Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Direct follow-up to last chapter, so a bit shorter.

Jon went to the room he’d been given, ignoring the looks of the guards in the hallway. He hated the room, it was nicer than even most of his siblings’ rooms and probably where Cersei had stayed during her visit. All of his things were there, but that only seemed to emphasize how few possessions he actually owned. 

He could go to the crypts, or the godswood, but he didn’t feel like talking to anyone else by chance. He could find his siblings, tell them the truth, but with only an hour before the feast he didn’t feel like he could get everything out he wanted to.

Instead he sat on the floor and polished Dark Sister, brooding over what had just happened.

If Daeron had hit him...then what? What could he have done? He knew from the last life that the Kingsguard wouldn’t stop the King from hurting the royal family. And certainly none of Daeron’s other guards or servants would interfere. Even many of the Westerosi wouldn’t, if they knew Jon was Daeron’s betrothed.

What would have happened, Jon wondered, if Daeron hit him and Jon _fought back_? Would he have been punished? Would Daeron have simply beaten him worse?

It was troubling enough that Jon debated going to Robb, asking him to find some reason to delay the wedding.

Missandei came in, eventually, to help ready him for the feast. He was glad for the distraction, even if she reminded him of Daenerys.

She brought Essosi-inspired garments not unlike ones he’d seen her and some others wear: a long sleeve, fitted doublet and a long sleeveless surcoat for over it, split in four places up to the waist to allow him ease of movement, over tight trousers. Like all the clothing he’d received from Daeron, it was made out of material that even at a glance he could tell was very expensive. There was a cloak along with the rest, just thick enough for the brief walks between buildings, with the Targaryen sigil lightly stitched into it. Everything was black, but the accents on all but the cloak were grey, not red. 

Like a mix of Targaryen and Stark.

Like Jon himself.

A peace offering, Jon quickly realized, running his fingers over the material as he studied the outfit. Daeron trying to make up with him after the fight. Had Daeron had these all along, waiting for a moment when he needed to make a gesture like this? Or had he planned to present Jon with new pieces and hadn’t had the time to, yet?

He sighed and put them on, finding them well-fitting. “When did he have these made?”

“Our seamstress started in White Harbor and continued on the journey here.” Missandei combed out Jon’s hair once he was done dressing, carefully pulling it back into some fancy braids that he didn’t protest, as it got the hair out of his face. “The King said you dislike Westerosi gowns. I do not blame you.”

Jon sighed, fiddling with the ties of his surcoat. When she motioned to a small chest in front of him on the vanity, Jon realized what he’d assumed was just a fixture of the room was another gift from Daeron, left there before their fight.

Inside was jewelry, most of which Jon immediately discounted ever wearing. Bracelets and bangles, rings and hair decorations, most of it Targaryen themed in some way. Most of it too feminine for his tastes.

“You must choose something, you do not want to look so plain. I have seen how your lords and ladies dress for these events.”

“I’m surprised he’s not making me wear some sort of crown,” Jon grumbled, digging through until he found a silver and ruby cloak pin in the shape of a dragon. “Will this be enough?”

Missandei studied him, then nodded, affixing it to his cloak. “You look very different. A good mix of cultures, Essosi and Westerosi, for one who will be ruling in both lands.”

That was a good enough excuse for Jon. Maybe it would even be good enough for the traditionalist lords, though he doubted it.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Missandei gave him a sympathetic smile, though she had yet to realize just how bad the night would be for him.

***

Daeron had spent the time before the feast raging at himself, at Jon, at everyone around them. He’d kept it in his head, mostly, not wanting to alert any servants to his mood.

He hadn’t meant to lash out, it had just come so easily to him. But all he could think about, staring at his fist inches away from Jon’s face, was Viserys, in the last life. Was what his father must have done to his mother.

No matter what, he would never become his father. Jon was wrong, he wasn’t mad, he wouldn’t be another Mad King.

There was no one else who infuriated him the way Jon did, because there was no one else he had ever felt so passionate towards. Blood of the dragon and born within the same year, they were meant to be together.

It was only circumstance that made them clash as they were. Soon, he hoped, Jon would realize that, would come to accept that Daeron was right about the Starks, about the ungrateful North and the useless Southrons. About how much better they, their family, was than any of them.

A knock on the door startled him from his thoughts.

“My King? It’s nearly time to leave for the feast.”

“Thank you, Ser Barristan. I’ll be out shortly.”

He took a moment to compose himself, straightening out his clothing, neatening his hair. At least he’d been ready before his confrontation.

Then, bracing himself to see Jon, hoping his gifts lightened the mood, he stepped out of the room. There was no point dwelling now, this feast would be the turning point for Jon and the Starks and he couldn’t miss this opportunity to sow discord.


	25. Winterfell

The feast was underway when Jon arrived outside the hall. It took him a few seconds to figure out why Missandei was having him wait and then he wished he’d disregarded her altogether and gone in by himself.

Daeron looked just as handsome as before, in traditional Targaryen garments and colors, and more dragons on his clothing and jewelry than Jon had time to count.

“My betrothed,” he greeted, solemn and polite, holding out his hand for Jon’s.

Jon reluctantly gave it over, watching Daeron bow over his hand and kiss the back of it--gently, quickly, not taking any liberties. Maybe their fight had been a good thing, in a way, maybe it had shaken Daeron out of his assumptions about Jon.

Arm in arm they entered, Jon doing his very best not to wince as the herald announced him after Daeron, using the Targaryen name they’d agreed on and the titles that were his birthright in this world.

From rightful King to just a princess. Even with no interest in the throne, there was something about it that upset Jon. And he felt a moment of sympathy for Daenerys in their last life, when Jon told her of his identity. She’d actually wanted the throne, it must have been even worse for her.

Around them, the crowd was reacting with various states of surprise as they walked together towards the high table. The seat of honor and the seat next to it were empty, waiting for them. 

Most of the guests seemed to already know, either from learning at White Harbor or being told about it earlier in the day, but his siblings...well, it was easy to see that neither Robb nor Lady Stark had the chance to speak with them before the feast, either.

Arya looked midway through a tantrum that Robb was barely keeping contained. Sansa was shooting him envious looks. Bran seemed surprised, but perhaps in a good way--his dream of joining the Kingsguard was certainly easier if his cousin was Queen. And Rickon, sweet little boy that he was, just seemed confused.

Lady Stark, between dealing with the children, sent glares towards Jon. Like his existence and the stress it caused her was still, somehow, completely his fault. He hadn’t asked his uncle to harbor him in their home, to pass him off as his bastard. And now that he knew he wasn’t even Ned Stark’s child, the fact he wasn’t said to be his Uncle Brandon’s bastard was even more confusing to him.

Daeron pulled out his chair, the picture of a gallant king, and Jon tried not to just throw himself into it and brood. There had been no going back the moment Daeron opened his mouth in White Harbor and declared Jon a Targaryen for all to hear, this was always inevitable. 

That didn’t make it feel any better, though.

***

Daenerys had always hated Northern feasts. The food was bland and too rich. The attitudes were too informal even when they were hosting their rightful monarch--she would accept much from the Dothraki and the free folk, but the Northerners had no excuse.

For Daeron, the experience was much the same. Perhaps the lords and ladies were more social towards him, but that could also just be because there were so many more of them now. They had not fought in a Southron war in years, they had not been invaded by Iron Born or tortured by Boltons. He recognized only a handful of the people present, in fact.

It was a reminder of just how different Westeros was in this timeline. He couldn’t even be sure what the South would be like, even with their conflicts.

He kept a hand on Jon’s arm for most of the feast, centering himself through the touch and also trying to remind Jon that they _could_ touch in gentle ways. That earlier had been an anomaly. 

Finally, Robb stood from his spot beside him and the crowded hall slowly quieted.

“Many of you may be surprised to find out the truth of my sister’s parentage. Some of you fought in the Rebellion. Some of you, like I, grew up with stories of Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapping my aunt. But while we may never know what truly led Rhaegar and Lyanna to runaway together, their actions were not the _start_ of the Rebellion. If anyone but Aerys had been Rhaegar’s father, had been King, the Rebellion might never have happened.” He gave a few pointed looks at lords that Daeron did not recognize. “Princess Alysanne is not to blame for the war, nor were her parents. King Daeron is not to blame for it, either. Neither of them were even _born_ when it started.”

He picked up his goblet from the table, raising it into the air. “And so, I wish for all of you to look at this day as one of celebration. As a new beginning. As a princess of Stark blood marrying the rightful King! Of a Northron Queen in King’s Landing!”

A cheer went up around the hall, others raising their cups, drinking and shouting out toasts along with Robb. Daeron played his part, graciously drinking, though he had to nudge Jon a few times to get him to cooperate and not just look as though he wished to sink into his seat and disappear. 

“Do not fret, dear, we’ll be wed and away from here soon enough,” he whispered into his ear, taking a moment to breathe deeply the scent of him.

Jon shot him a quick glare. “This is my home, your grace. Leaving it does not fill me with joy.”

He clenched his teeth, offering him a tight smile and not the words that wanted to erupt. He would tear down Winterfell in his heart, would make him despise this place, someday. Dragonstone and King’s Landing were his homes, the only ones he needed.

“My King.” Daeron turned, seeing that Sansa was now addressing him. “You do us such a great honor by visiting,” she simpered, not noticing how little her coy looks did for him. “I have heard few tales of Essos and know that you have traveled much of it. Would you honor us with tales of your greatness?”

Offering a charming smile, he agreed. And didn’t miss the triumphant look Sansa shot Jon, as if she thought she had won something. 

For a moment, Daeron could not fathom what was going on, and then he realized and had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing hysterically. Even now, Sansa wishes nothing more than to be Queen. Even if that means stealing her “sister’s” betrothed.

What a little fool.

But...this could be useful, indeed.


	26. Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that Jon and Daeron are together I've been debating for awhile doing just one POV per chapter. I may switch to that coming up, if it starts to feel too disjointed to keep doing both. I have some ~drama~ coming up in the next few chapters and am trying to decide how I want them to be split lol
> 
> Just a quick reminder:
> 
> \--Jon is a _man_ , his name _is_ Jon. People around him, because they live in a shitty medieval society, will sometimes call him a woman, use women's names for him, or use female pronouns for him. And technically all of his titles are female, too (especially since homosexuality is something that is hidden away in Westeros, not flaunted, so he can't be the King Consort to a King Regnant). None of that makes him not a man.
> 
> \--Daeron is basically a man, he's mostly disassociated from Daenerys at this point. He has no issue considering himself as having been female in the past, or being referred to in such a way, but it's not a very useful thing for him and he finds being male generally much nicer. At most he's genderfluid with very, very strong male-leanings, but he becomes less and less Daenerys as time goes on.
> 
> \--They are both pansexual, though Jon leans towards demisexual (basically, he needs an emotional connection to a person before he really wants sex with them).

Jon trained with Robb in the mornings, helped with plans for the Wall in the afternoons, and not-so-secretly trained Arya in the evenings. In between, he felt like he had a hundred other little tasks to accomplish.

It took a few full days in Winterfell before he realized he hadn’t spoken to Daeron since the feast. Which was odd, because even on the ride from White Harbor Daeron had seemed to hate to have Jon out of his sight.

He hesitated to say anything to Missandei about it, or the Unsullied guards Daeron had insisted Jon have with him any time he stepped from his private rooms, because he wasn’t sure he shouldn’t be _happy_ that Daeron was distracted. And it wasn’t like there weren’t reasons for him to be, with threats in the North and South.

But Jon had the sinking feeling the reason he was absent was because he was _up to_ something.

One morning, as Missandei calmly pleated his hair, Jon hazarded to say, “I have not seen my uncle recently. Do you know if he’s been busy?”

Missandei hesitated long enough that Jon thought she must be in on whatever it was that Daeron was doing. “The King has been...distracted. But he would be delighted to know you are thinking of him.” She smiled, it seemed mostly sincere. “Perhaps the two of you could take the midday meal together?”

Jon thought for a few moments, running through what he had to do that day. “...It has been some time since I’ve gone riding. Would you see if Daeron would be open for a flight and a meal somewhere in the Wolfswood?”

She agreed to check and Jon hurried off to training, ignoring the Unsullied at his back and the watchful eyes of the servants he passed.

***

Daeron had never had so many long, boring walks in his life as he’d had over the last few days. Sansa Stark, who had been coldly polite and mostly silent towards Daenerys in their last life, was loquacious and vapid in this one. For some reason, she seemed to think he cared about Winterfell’s history or the Essosi fashions she’d observed from his people.

Walking through the glass gardens, staring at the blue roses, he could only think of Jon, no matter who clung to his arm. His betrothed would know what topics Daeron was interested in and when he simply wanted to appreciate the quiet. 

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they? Winter roses have always been associated with Stark women.” Sansa fluttered her eyelashes up at him as he stroked the petals of one of the flowers. 

The roses may have been associated with Stark women in general at one point, but to Daeron, and probably anyone outside the North, they represented Lyanna Stark. They must have looked beautiful in her hair, he could imagine the pale blue against Jon’s hair, the way the color would bring out his eyes.

“We have tools to cut them, to avoid thorns.” Sansa gave him a wide eyed look, perhaps meant to be attractive, as she pushed him to give her a rose.

“That is good to know, for the future,” he replied.

Jon had yet to even notice his lack of attention, hadn’t even paid attention to Daeron and Sansa as they paraded around the Keep together. If Daeron gave Sansa a bouquet of winter roses, would Jon care? _Could_ Daeron stomach such an act?

A quick word of Valyrian from one of the guards brought Daeron’s attention back to the room around them and he saw Missandei coming forward. Her lips were pursed, though her face was otherwise blank, and he knew she didn’t approve of his time with Sansa.

“My King,” she looked only at him, ignoring Sansa completely, “I have a message from the princess.”

He couldn’t help his quick intake of breath. “Indeed?”

“The princess wishes to go flying today and to enjoy a midday meal with you.”

Flying meant privacy, just the two of them up in the sky as only they could be. And a meal…. 

“That is a wonderful idea, I know our dragons have been growing bored. Prepare a satchel with a meal for two, and a wine skin. I shall meet her in...two hours.”

“My King.” Missandei bowed, shot Sansa a glare that was so quick the girl probably didn’t see it, then hurried to make preparations.

“Lady Sansa, I’m afraid I must cut our morning short.”

Sansa’s eyes were narrowed, envy radiating off of her. “Of course, your grace. Your duties call.”

He almost laughed at her, that she would think anyone would marry Jon simply for duty. Beautiful and a trueborn princess, if Daeron had not immediately declared their betrothal he could only imagine how many men would have tried.

She flounced off, most likely to go whine to her bitch of a mother, leaving Daeron alone with his guards in the glass garden. Looking back at the roses, he smiled, and gave a few orders before he, too, left.


	27. FAQ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I go over some basic questions/terminology for the fic, both from questions I've gotten and confusion people in the comments seem to have had.
> 
> I'll probably edit/add to this.

This is a _very quick overview_. If you have any questions, there's a lot of good resources out there. Also, a lot of this may be slightly different for different people. Some might have slightly different definitions or very, very different definitions, depending on their beliefs, culture, and how they've been socialized.

_I didn't right this to fight over semantics or whatever with anyone, I've written it because some people seem confused about certain aspects of my fic and this seemed the easiest way to get these concepts across._

**What do "trans" and "trans man" mean?**

Trans is an umbrella term describing when the gender you are does not agree with the one assigned to you at birth (ie, someone takes a quick look at your genitals and declares you male or female...or, if you're intersex, mutilates you through nonconsensual surgery and then declares you male or female). Gender is a multi-faceted and incredibly complicated categorization that can't be as easily assigned as modern Western and Western-influenced cultures like to pretend it is (it was fairly common in the past for cultures to have three or more genders). 

A trans man (or transgender man) is someone who was born with a vagina and therefore declared a girl, before anything else was known about them. But, despite that, they are a man and they often figure it out fairly early (or at least know there's something "off") but may not come out for a long time for a variety of reasons. 

The opposite of trans is "cis." A cis man, for example, is someone who is a man and was born with a penis and declared a boy at birth and treated as a boy/man their whole life.

**What does genderfluid mean? Is Dany genderfluid?**

Genderfluid is when someone isn't locked tightly to a gender binary (male or female). Gender can be thought of as a spectrum and "in between" male and female there are a ton of other possibilities that might be more male or more female, or neither, or both. Genderfluid people normally move back and forth between different spots on that spectrum. This falls under the "trans" category, though genderfluid people don't necessarily call themselves trans. 

For lack of a better term, Dany starts out the fic as genderfluid. As she adjusts more and more to her body and her Daeron persona, she becomes more and more "male" and could basically be considered, say, a cis man who was a cis woman in a past life. He does not mind being referred to as Daenerys or by female pronouns, but it's not really who he is anymore.

**What is deadnaming? What is misgendering?**

Deadnaming is when someone uses the 'old' name of a trans person. In this world, Jon was named Joanna by Ned as a baby, not too long after being declared a girl just because of his genitals. When someone calls Jon "Joanna" they are using his deadname. It's a name he doesn't want, that he doesn't feel a connection to, and that is a constant reminder of how shitty his world and situation are. It's basically the equivalent of someone calling him "bastard" all the time as an insult.

This is somewhat true for "Alysanne," though Jon does not feel quite as bad about it. He chose that name and he means to build a persona to play in public around it, but he very much wishes it was not necessary. That he could have declared himself Prince Jaehaerys or something and been done with it.

Misgendering is when someone uses the wrong gender for another person. Calling Jon "she" instead of "he" is an example of misgendering. Jon is a man and his pronouns are he/him/his.

They're both incredibly rude things to do, hurtful and harmful. Regretfully, this is Westeros, where women are property to be sold and raped and being married out of wedlock makes one a sinful, worthless person in society's eyes. They're not very forward-thinking about gender.

**What is transitioning and can/will Jon transition?**

Transitioning is when a trans person takes steps to be perceived as their real gender. Jon asks Robb and others to call him "Jon," he mostly wears men's clothing and performs masculine tasks normally blocked to women in their society, etc. That is all a form of transition.

In the modern day we have various other types of transitioning, which includes hormone treatments (additive ones and blockers) and surgery. These don't exist on Planetos, at least no permanent kinds (the most is if Jon got some sort of red priest glamour going on, but as soon as he took off the ruby his body would be back to how it is) (trans women could technically do like what we see men such as Grey Worm and Varys have had done to them in canon, various states of removal of their genitals, but that has lots of side effects without proper hormonal supplementation and obviously back in medieval times risks of infection/death).

But gender dysphoria (in the simplest terms, it's feeling like one's body isn't right, doesn't look/function right, sometimes causing anxiety, depression, suicidal ideation, etc.) varies from person to person. And thanks to having some of the old memories of his body, being aware that this is a "new" life, and his interactions with the free folk, Jon doesn't have a ton of dysphoria. Which is good, because Westeros isn't a safe place to be different (even Arya, who is just a tomboy, got constant shit for not adhering to the strict gender protocols) and people are going to keep misgendering Jon and expecting him to dress/act womanly at times. But Val and the free folk have shown him that what his body is like doesn't need to matter <3

**Will the transphobia ever let up?**

So...regretfully, probably not. At least not completely. People are going to call Jon "Queen Alysanne" and they're going to misgender him throughout the story. Daeron won't (except when speaking with third parties sometimes) and eventually the other people close to them won't. But others will. 

It can be off-putting for trans people and it's totally reasonable to not want to continue the story, knowing there's not a fantasy trans ending involved. If I ever get this fic finished I'll put a summary at the end so if you ever come back but still aren't comfortable finishing it, you can at least know what happened.

**What inspired you to write a genderbent fic like this?**

As I said in the first chapter notes, I'm non-binary--I don't identify as male or female, though I'm AFAB (assigned female at birth). That gender "spectrum" I mentioned? I am _never_ at one end or the other.

A lot of genderbent fic can be a little awkward for me, because it often comes across, especially in the fandoms set in the modern day/future or with extreme magic (like Harry Potter), as just an excuse to not make a character trans. Someone wants two characters together but for some reason they want it to be het, or they want them to be able to have children, or whatever, and instead of making one of them trans, they change their cis gender. 

I'd been thinking of doing a trans!Jon fic for awhile, but based around the notion of Rhaegar's belief he'd have a daughter, but could never work out exactly how I wanted to do it.

I decided to experiment with trans-ness and my own perceptions of gender by doing the genderbending this way--by having Jon go from being a cis man to a trans man, from having Dany go from being a cis woman to a genderfluid person to a cis man (there _is_ some magical bullshit involved in them being there, after all lol). To show the different ways being in different bodies, being perceived as different genders, could affect someone. And to explore the way their society treats the binary genders without being, well, a little cissexist and just switching them from one cis gender to the other cis gender. Because Season 8 did a really bad job with the succession issue and a lot of it basically boiled down to "Jon's a man, so we'll support his claim instead even if he doesn't want us to."

Different trans people have different views of gender, of the importance or lack thereof of dysphoria, and of how trans people should act in different settings. This doesn't reflect how every single person who falls under the trans umbrella would see this as happening, but it's my personal interpretation and I don't have any interest in being scolded by truscum/transmed assholes or whatever.


	28. Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been researching medieval fashion for this fic (the upperclass wore really?? complicated?? clothes?? like calm down and put on some pants and a shirt lol) and had someone point me towards stuff they thought would look like Essosi outfits to imagine the characters in and [check these out](https://menandfashion.tumblr.com/post/177281034338/anju-modi-2018-couture-collection-india-couture).
> 
> Also, anyone else read the 8x06 script that leaked? It somehow made the episode EVEN WORSE. But there were some decent parts. Like, "[Jon] had nothing else to live for" after killing Dany! I can't. Also Drogon reacted really oddly to Jon throughout? It was so weird.
> 
> But, like, also, Jon is just SO PASSIVE and SUBMISSIVE throughout the whole thing. Sometimes I can't get over how different book and show Jon are lol

Daeron, of course, agreed to a flight. He met Jon at their dragons with two satchels strapped across his shoulders and chest and a self-satisfied expression on his face. 

“The waterfall?” he suggested, a teasing note in his voice, and Jon felt his cheeks heat up.

“It’s as good a place as any.” He didn’t wait for a reply before climbing up onto Meraxes and taking off.

On top of a dragon, flying over the expanse of the North, he could forget some of his annoyance and simply enjoy the experience. Like the last time they did this, he found himself and Daeron locked in a game, though this time he had far more experience to rely on. They dived through ravines and sailed through the sky, twisting and turning around each other. 

Jon could see how a battle between dragons could be called a dance. Even just this play _felt_ like one.

When they did land by the waterfall they’d once rested at in their last life, Jon felt lighter than he had since arriving home and didn’t fight Daeron as he caught his arm and pulled him into a kiss. At least, not at first. When he tried to deepen it, Jon did pull away, instead focusing on the bags Daeron wore.

“Well? Are we going to eat or are you just going to stare?”

“I could spend an eternity staring at you, Jon, and never grow bored.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Does that work on the highborn girls?”

He didn’t miss the flash of anger on Daeron’s face, the narrowing of his eyes. “It does for many. Even in the North I’m found charming.” 

Then his face smoothed out and he undid the satchel straps, setting them on the ground. He handed one of the bags to Jon and focused on the other. As Jon took out a blanket to lay on the ground and then began setting out the simple foods that had been packed away, he pondered on Daeron’s words. 

When he turned back to him, he paused, staring at his hands. Or, more importantly, the crown of winter roses in them.

“I thought it was only appropriate for my Queen,” Daeron murmured, placing it on Jon’s head and twisting his hair around it as Jon tried to work out what to say. “I knew they would look beautiful on you, like you’d been born to wear them.”

He leaned in for another kiss and Jon almost, almost allowed it. Then he remembered their fight, and how Daeron had ignored him outside of public meetings, and he pulled back.

“I’m not won over by pretty flowers, _uncle_. You of all people should have realized that.” He grabbed at it, letting out a soft cry as a thorn caught his skin, and quickly pulled his hand back, leaving the crown on.

Daeron chuckled, taking out a handkerchief and pressing it against the wound. “If you do not think before acting, Jon, you can regret those actions.” There was a weight in his words and guilt flared in Jon’s chest again, thinking of what Daeron might be referring to.

“...I’m hungry,” he muttered, sitting down on the blanket. “Let’s just eat.”

And they did eat, in relative silence, Daeron’s eyes rarely leaving Jon’s person. They made Jon feel nervous, not knowing what it was that Daeron was seeing in him. 

“Are the preparations for the wedding going well?” Daeron asked as he passed Jon a wineskin, his fingers caressing Jon’s hand where they met. 

“...As well as can be expected. For all that she’s getting to have a royal wedding at her home, Lady Stark isn’t being very helpful.” They both scowled. “But Lord Manderly brought his granddaughters along and there’s a few other ladies who have been helping me.”

“And your cousins? Have they been helping?”

Jon smiled at the memory of Arya’s assistance--she may not be very good at sewing or other such crafts, but she was enthusiastic where she could help. “Aye, Arya has been assisting with the organizing of the feast and Sansa has been helping me with the...the bridal cloak.”

He’d wanted it to be a white wolf, to be a bastard’s sigil and Ghost in one, but Robb had vehemently been against it. Instead, it was the Stark wolf in Targaryen red on a black background with a bed of winter roses below....Jon reached up, remembering the flower crown, carefully brushing his fingers against the petals. He’d wanted to honor the mother he’d never known and he was relieved to know Daeron wouldn’t take offense at it.

“And on your end? The guests you wanted are arriving in time?”

“There are few I care to have at this ceremony.” A satisfied smile stretching his lips. “We will be wed again, after all, and both Faiths will need to acknowledge our union to the fullest. But some of my...closer allies should be in attendance. Oberyn Martell, for one.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “The Red Viper? How do you know him?” 

In the last life, he’d died fairly early on, from what Jon remembered. Killed right after Joffrey to avenge Jon’s step-mother and brother. He supposed in this life, with a Daeron instead of a Daenerys, and one never wandering Essos and thought dead, Dorne hadn’t felt the need to send him to King’s Landing.

“He travels outside of Westeros frequently and came to me to negotiate Dornish support of my claim.” Daeron raised his eyebrows, considering Jon. “If you can make a good impression on him, it will go a long way towards Dornish...acceptance...of you.”

Wincing, Jon realized what he meant. And was very glad that in this life he was not named after a dead sibling. 

“Will you arrange a private dinner with us and the prince, when he arrives? There’s...many things I’d like to speak to him about.”

“Of course, my love. I realize that perhaps I...was not as supportive in the last life, as I should have been. But this is our second chance in all ways and I will help you accept who you are, what you are. What that means.”

When Daeron looked at him like that, Jon could remember the Daenerys he’d fallen in love with. The gentle, noble woman with such grand goals. If only that hadn’t been a mask she’d discarded. 

“...Thank you. That...means a lot to me.”

Their return trip was more sedate, both relaxed after their meal and feeling more comfortable in the other’s presence. It wasn’t until Jon was walking back into Winterfell that he remembered the crown again, still in place from the hair Daeron had wrapped it in and the thorns that had caught in that hair. 

The eyes of the whole courtyard seemed stuck on him, but the biggest reaction came from Sansa. His little sister caught sight of him, froze, and Jon could almost see her face crumple in grief. When she looked at Daeron, heartbroken, Jon’s blood boiled.

“What did you do?”

Daeron simply chuckled at him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Nothing untoward, dear. No one could replace you in my heart.”

***

Jon’s anger wasn’t exactly what Daeron had wanted, but it was a step in the right direction. He felt the slightest hint of regret, remembering how close they had grown over their meal, but he knew they would easily reach that point again. Jon would always forgive him. And now that Jon knew what Daeron had been up to, he was actually paying attention to him.

Daeron relished the feeling of Jon’s eyes on him, even if they were trying to glare holes through his head. The way Jon requested his presence with ever increasing frequency. The way he always seemed to want to take meals together, even if that meant playing nice in the hall, surrounded by the lords.

There were no touches, no kisses, no sweetness, though. And the longer that went on, the more frustrated, the more desperate, Daeron became.

And so, when Jon wasn’t quite thoughtful enough, or quick enough, he’d find a way to spend time with Sansa again. The girl was latching onto him every chance she got, her jealousy a palpable thing. Her touch made his skin crawl, her face enraged him, the kisses they shared disgusted him, the intimacy he encouraged made him rub his skin raw in the bath after, but he could not stop the game yet.

He would break her heart, ruin her body, and shame her in the eyes of everyone. It was the least of the punishments he wished he could visit upon her, who in their last life had ruined everything by breaking her sacred oath.

And, even more than that, Jon had to know what he could lose. He had to accept that he wanted Daeron.


	29. Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit goes down in this chapter haha 
> 
> I have had both this chapter and the next one finished but have been going over and over them tweaking things and changing things because I'm not sure about them, especially this one. But, y'know, nothing can be perfect lol This was definitely one of the ones where I debated having only one POV and stretching it out, but decided I'm just going to keep trucking along with the two POV thing lol
> 
> Anyway, a few more "slow" chapters and then the time passing should pick up speed again.
> 
> Also, REMINDER, this is a LIMITED pov fic. What is there is either what Jon or Daeron think/know and not necessarily a reflection of reality.

It wasn’t that Jon _wanted_ Daeron. He didn’t. Daeron was a monster lurking under a courtly exterior. No matter how sweet he could sometimes be, that sweetness was only ever temporary.

But seeing the way Sansa fawned over him, now that he was paying attention, made Jon realize that his only way to protect her might be to _give in_. Especially since Lady Stark seemed to be encouraging Sansa, playing interference so no one who could stop her or warn her away from Daeron seemed to notice. When Jon tried to bring it, subtly, to Robb’s attention, he clearly had no idea what he was talking about. Jon knew he shouldn’t be surprised she would once more put power before her children’s safety, but he was.

So he spent more time with Daeron, hanging off his arm pretending to be charmed, going on other long rides and taking picnics in new scenic places. Some of it was romantic and Daeron was certainly sweet when they were alone, enough that in any other situation maybe Jon would thaw towards him, would let himself be seduced.

Except Jon could never forget that he was doing it all just to take up the time when he could be instead seducing Sansa, hurting Sansa.

Because no matter how polite Daeron appeared, no matter how he smiled coyly and spoke as though a true knight to Sansa, Jon knew Daeron hated her. That he was just looking for an excuse to destroy her.

That he’d take her heart, then her maidenhead, and leave her as used goods in the minds of everyone around her. Dearon didn’t really care about the North--he’d burn Winterfell to the ground if Robb protested--and felt he could do whatever he wanted to the Starks. But no matter how delicately Jon tried to warn Sansa away, she just wouldn’t listen.

“You’re just jealous that he likes me better!” Sansa had the nerve to say one evening, just a few days before the wedding, when Jon had managed to get Daeron away from her once more with a request for him to personally see to a planning matter.

Jon’s frustration boiled over and for once he didn’t try to stop himself from saying what was on his mind. He didn’t care that Arya, and Jeyne, and other ladies were there watching them. That Missandei was seated right next to him, as out of place as ever with the isolationist Northerners. 

“Sansa, you’re being a fool. An empty-headed little girl thinking all your fantasies would come true. What do you think will happen? That he’ll give up following our family’s traditions, that he’ll give up on marrying another dragonrider, for you?” 

“You--”

All his final days of freedom, all the time he could have been spending with Robb, or Arya, or their younger siblings, and he’d been wasting it on Daeron for _her_. And Sansa couldn’t even appreciate that. Jon was about to be forced to wed his own uncle, someone who had no issue with mass murder, and be dragged South to play Queen to him, and Sansa _envied_ him it.

“No, Sansa. He won’t break off our wedding. He’ll marry me. And if you’re lucky, maybe he’ll keep you as a mistress,” he added, cruelly, thinking of all the insults that Lady Stark had levelled at him growing up. “Birthing his bastards to get sent to the Wall so they don’t threaten my children’s claims! Won’t your mother be so proud?”

He hadn’t _not_ been expecting her to react, but he certainly wasn’t prepared for her to fly at him, nails aimed to claw at his face. She was easy enough to dodge, especially in the heavy skirts she wore to show how different and more ladylike she was over Jon. Soon enough, Missandei and Arya had Sansa’s arms in their stronger grasps.

“You ungrateful bastard! He just wants you because you’re family are incestuous freaks! He can tell I’m a better lady! That I’d be the best Queen!”

Missandei laughed and Sansa’s wild eyes rolled towards her, outraged. “The King adores the Princess. You have never had any hope. He likes to bed girls like you, he has taken countless throughout Essos, but it is nothing serious.”

Sansa gasped in outrage. “He would never treat me like that! He is honorable and would do his duty to me! He understands the difference between a lady and a common whore like Joanna!”

It was Arya who reacted first this time, smacking Sansa across the back of the head. “Jo’s a trueborn princess! You hate that she’s better than you, that she’s always been better than you!”

“She is not! She’s just a mummer’s boy like you! Daeron doesn’t love her, he loves me! He’ll leave her, because love always triumphs over joyless arranged marriages! He’ll leave her just like Rhaegar left Elia for Aunt Lyanna!”

There were a lot of insults and references that Jon could allow to pass him by, but the slight on his step-mother filled him with rage. He slapped Sansa, harder than he perhaps should have, on one cheek, then the other, almost snarling in his fury.

“I don’t give a single _fuck_ what you say about me, you petty little _beast_ , but you will _not_ insult my family!”

If it wasn’t for Missandei’s calming hand on his shoulders, pulling him from the room, he didn’t know what he would have done, next. This would be all around the castle by the next day, they’d all be humiliated by Sansa and Daeron’s actions.

He stalked out, ignoring Lady Stark yelling in outrage after him as he pushed by her in the hallway where she’d been most likely rushing to see why her precious Sansa was screaming. She’d think even worse of him, now, but he didn’t care. What did her opinion matter to him? He was going to be Queen, let Lady Stark seethe. 

***

Daeron smirked as he listened to Missandei give him a rundown of the events of the day from behind him. He adjusted his clothing once more, making sure everything was perfect, and then smoothed out his face as he turned. 

“And my niece is still abed?”

Missandei nodded. “Yes, the princess has not left her room since the incident. I had ordered food brought to her before coming here.”

“Thank you, Missandei, you’ve been a good friend to her and I will always appreciate that, as I’m sure she does. I’m going to check on her, now. Go get some rest.” 

Missandei looked worried, but he’d heard the satisfaction in her voice as she spoke of Jon standing up to Sansa. Among the Northerners, Sansa and her mother had been some of the least welcoming of the Essosi among Daeron’s retinue. 

Jon didn’t answer his door, but it opened easily to Daeron. Inside was mostly dark, but he could spot Ghost’s white fur in a corner in the moonlight falling from the window and just make out Jon curled around the direwolf.

“Are you happy?”

“Happy?” Daeron repeated, walking closer. “Why would seeing you this miserable make me happy?”

Snorting, Jon wiped his hands over his face, probably trying to clear away tear tracks. “You wanted me fighting with my family. You encouraged Sansa in her--her foolishness. To hurt her. To hurt me.”

He crouched beside Jon, stroking a hand through his messy curls. “I want you to see the truth of them, my love, I knew it would hurt you, but I didn’t want you to hurt this badly. I knew she could be cruel in the last life, but I did not expect her to be like this. To say those things….”

Anger flared in him again, thinking of what Missandei had told him. Her memory was very good and she recited most of it almost word-for-word. While he was glad to hear Jon refer to the Targaryens as his own family and to stand up for himself, he was far from pleased to hear about the attacks leveled against them.

“I just...I couldn’t _stop_ myself,” Jon mumbled. “I was so _angry_.”

“You are a dragon and she woke the dragon. Our hearts are fire, others will always be burnt by them.”

Jon choked out a humorless laugh. “Oh? Is that the excuse?” He looked up at Daeron, his eyes so dark they looked black. “Did you think, in our last life, that I’d--I’d treat you like my father treated Princess Elia?”

That caused him to pause, staring at Jon. Had Daenerys thought…? No, that had never even occurred to her. That Jon might not love her enough was a worry, but that Jon would seek to replace her…well, she was certainly no Elia, she would not have allowed that no matter what their relationship had become. She would have killed Jon, before losing him to another.

“No. Nor need you ever fear it from me, Jon. We were made for one another, I will never love another the way I love you.”

“Missandei said...you’d had lots of lovers.”

Daeron carded his fingers through Jon’s hair, slowly untangling it. This was the most he’d gotten to touch him in days and a small part of him regretted his plot again. A dragon plants no trees, but building relationships, bonding with a mate...that was different.

“I have had sex with many people, it was for the physical aspect of it solely, I never loved any of them. From the moment I realized you lived in this world, my heart has belonged to you. I know you were manipulated into killing me, I know you would have never dreamt of doing it on your own. That you loved me. I felt it in your kiss.”

“And instead of showing that, you decided to publicly seduce my little sister? Make everyone here think you want her, but are forced to marry me?”

Shivering at the accusation, Daeron couldn’t help but wonder what rumors were spreading around the castle and realized he’d need to get his people on them. He knew that Lady Stark had hidden what he was doing from Robb and many of his bannermen, but the servants were another story.

“Hardly. I was going to have everyone see me reject her. And let them all know that I only love you, always you.” 

He had thought of inviting her to his room only to return to it with others, that they might see her attempting to seduce him and see him throw her out. Now...well, he might still make that work, but it would depend on what transpired for the others after the argument.

Something flared in Jon’s eyes, that Daeron thought (hoped) might be a bit of pleasure, then flickered out. “Gods, we deserve each other, don’t we? Fucked up,” he seemed to search for a word, and finally, resigned, muttered, “dragons.”

He knew that Jon’s resignation wasn’t necessarily the way he should want their relationship to go, but he would accept anything. If this was what he needed, to break Jon down and rebuild him, then he would.

Jon hesitated, looking away, then back to Daeron with an almost blank expression on his face. “What if I can’t…” he trailed off, grimacing. “What if I can’t ever manage to get pregnant? It’s so...sometimes I can think of it but other times it just...disgusts me. The idea of it.”

Daeron knew Jon was having trouble adjusting, but he also knew Jon. Knew that he could convince Jon, somehow, given enough time, that everything Daeron wanted was what was right. Last time Daenerys had been so close, if it hadn’t been for the treachery of a Lannister and Sansa, Jon would have agreed with her.

“We’ll work that out when we come to it, my love. For now, all I ask is that you adjust to the idea of being my Queen. After the wars are won we can worry about the rest.”

He’d surprised Jon, he thought, and saw him relax just a little more.

“After the wedding,” Daeron said, “the day after, if you so desire, we shall leave. We can fly to Dragonstone and my people will follow later.” Gently, oh so gently, he guided Jon’s head to rest against his chest, holding him close.

Jon licked his lips, face going blank again, and then nodded. “I...that might be best,” he mumbled, finally.

He fell asleep curled into Daeron’s arms, too exhausted to protest. All Daeron could think to do was shift himself into a more comfortable position, keeping a tight grip on Jon. Soon he wouldn’t need to upset Jon so much, wouldn’t need to whisper sweet lies in girls’ ears, to get him this close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, woo, that's over haha There will be more fallout in the next chapter, both from the fight and from Jon and Daeron's chat.


	30. Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over the next few chapters they'll be some other characters who haven't really been seen recently because of all the drama lol

Jon awoke the next day lying on the floor beside Ghost...and on top of Daeron. He had to move carefully and slowly to extract himself from his uncle’s arms to stretch out, rolling his stiff shoulders and rubbing his head.

Someone had left a jug of drinking water for him, lightly flavored by some Essosi berry, and he gratefully gulped down a whole cup-full, then started on another, dehydrated enough from the crying that he felt nearly hungover.

He’d grown used to that sort of crying in his last life, when he’d wandered the True North with an aching, empty heart and Ghost, with his only human contact Tormund, who sometimes managed to track him down and check up on him.

In the light of day drifting through the windows, he felt worse about the fight with Sansa. Sansa was a child. While many would claim she was a woman grown Jon knew something like moon blood didn’t actually mature a person. 

And, from her reactions, he had a sinking feeling that Daeron might have gone far further with her than he had imagined. 

Yet a part of him remembered how in another life she betrayed her oath before the heart tree, how she abandoned him and let him be sent to the Wall when he was the rightful King in the South and the North, the only legitimate Targaryen and Stark male left, outside of...whatever Bran had become. He could understand why Daeron had trouble differentiating between the people they’d known and the people they were surrounded by now.

That part of him felt something like sadistic pleasure knowing that she had grown up thinking he was the sinner, the unclean one between them, and had allowed herself to be seduced by someone as obviously casual as Daeron. She’d been so obsessed with being Queen in their last life she’d betrayed Arya and their father, and Jon himself at least thrice over. In this world it appeared it was no different.

A groan sounded behind him and he turned to watch Daeron awaken, his body clearly not having enjoyed the position it had been stuck in all night. “I had hoped to wake up with you in my arms.”

Jon snorted. “There is but one day before the wedding, you can wait.”

“So you won’t be forcing me out of our marriage bed in the middle of the night?” His smile and tone were teasing and Jon rolled his eyes, but smiled just a little. 

Daeron may have caused this situation, but Jon thought he’d been telling the truth when he’d said he hadn’t meant to hurt Jon. And maybe, just maybe, things would get better from here.

He flicked his fingers towards the door. “That remains to be seen, but I am kicking you out of my room now.”

“Truly? I only just awoke, my love. Do you not wish to spend time with me?”

“We have dinner tonight with your friends, I am sure I’ll have more than enough of you to deal with, then.”

Daeron laughed, the sound broken and beautiful, pulling at Jon’s heartstrings. Curse the Targaryens and their beauty, curse the wicked blood in him that drew him to Daeron like a moth to a flame.

“Truly, it is good to see you feeling better. I worry for you.” He wrapped his arms around Jon from behind, dropping a kiss on his shoulder. “I love you, Jon, and only you. Do not forget that.”

“It was you who needed constant reminding of love, not I,” Jon muttered, then winced.

But Daeron only tensed slightly around him. “It is good that I know now I have always had it.”

“You...you did. Perhaps someday you’ll manage to regain it.”

Daeron left, both of their moods more sober than before, and Jon reluctantly readied himself for the day. His first step was to send Missandei to Robb, requesting a private meeting.

Alone in the godswood, Jon told Robb a very broad overview of what had happened with Sansa. Guiltily, he placed almost all of the blame on Sansa and Lady Catelyn, acting as though Daeron had just been acting like a true knight and Sansa had read too much into it.

It might be a lie, and one that Jon didn’t like making, but keeping the Seven Kingdoms as united as possible was more important than someone’s feelings. Robb might take offense and withdraw support from Daeron or something else foolish and get all of the Starks killed.

The only war that really mattered was the War for the Dawn and they _had_ to have Daeron for that. Especially now that they would be vigilant not to let the Night King get ahold of a dragon.

“I knew my mother was plotting something, but this is just…” Robb trailed off, outraged.

“I’m so sorry about this, Robb. My uncle and I thought it was just a crush on Sansa’s part. We didn’t realize she...she took it all so seriously. That she thought he wanted her in return.”

She watched her brother rub his head, knowing he must have a headache building. “Jo--n, I’ll talk to them.” 

“Thank you, they won’t listen to anything I say.”

“And...I think I’ll start looking for betrothals for her. I need to act before any rumors spread.” His face darkened. “A Targaryen with a Stark, those rumors will not be pretty.” Jon flinched and his eyes widened. “I didn’t...I’m sorry, Jon. Gods, you must think the worst of all of us, don’t you?”

“Robb! Why would you say that?”

“My _mother_ and sister try to break off your betrothal! My lords insult your family left and right. And when was the last time we even spoke? If I had made time for you before this, maybe I would have known and stopped it before Sansa hurt you like that. You’re my _sister_ and I have barely seen you in a sennight!”

Jon’s heart ached, wishing he could explain to Robb how that was in no way his fault. “You’re the Lord of Winterfell, you’re hosting a royal wedding, there’s enemies at the Wall and enemies in the South. You’re busy. You’re my brother, I’ll love you no matter how much you neglect me,” he said the last teasingly, giving Robb an unexpected push and laughing as his brother stumbled.

“Why you!” 

Robb squatted and picked up a handful of snow in one movement, rolling it into a ball and throwing it at Jon. If he hadn’t been raised in the North, he would have probably not seen the warning signs and dodged in time.

“You really think you can beat me, Stark? All you do is sit in a chair all day!” Jon teased, throwing a snowball of his own as they began chasing each other through the woods, their direwolves taking up their mood and wrestling with each other behind them.

“Any time, any place, Snow!”

***

Daeron greeted Oberyn and Ellaria with a pleased smirk and a kiss on each of their lips. If Jon had any thoughts on it, he kept it to himself, his face Stark-stoic as he waited to be greeted. He’d arrived perfectly put together in one of the black and red outfits that Daeron had provided him, looking stunning--a Targaryen beauty despite his coloring--and Daeron was having a hard time not staring.

“Ah, the Princess Alysanne! Your beauty was greatly understated!” Oberyn declared, gallantly taking Jon’s hand and kissing the back of it, throwing in a seductive smile that Daeron knew was very effective but that Jon wouldn’t care for.

“Thank you, Prince Oberyn. I am glad to finally meet my uncle’s...friends.” The word from Jon’s mouth dripped with meaning.

Oberyn laughed, the sound half-startled like he hadn’t expected Jon to know the relationship between them. Now his gaze was a little more calculating, no longer seeing Jon as the vapid Northern girl he must have imagined Jon would be.

“And you must be Lady Ellaria, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” Jon’s smile was slightly more genuine as he greeted Ellaria and he, to her amusement, took her hand and kissed the back much as Oberyn had done to his.

“Oh, I am sure it will be my pleasure, as well, your grace.” Ellaria’s eyes roved over Jon, intrigued.

For a moment Daeron imagined what they might look like together, the two dark haired beauties twined together on red silk sheets. But for as lovely as that might be, the idea of letting another touch his Jon was unacceptable.

They moved to the table that had been set up for them, loyal servants having used the guest kitchen to prepare food in Essosi traditions. Jon was familiar with some of it from his time on Dragonstone and didn’t complain. It was another mark in his favor in Oberyn’s eyes, who had most likely already grown familiar with the bland food the Northerners preferred.

“I must say, I was surprised when the King told us of your existence, princess.”

Jon looked up from his plate, clearly wary, and Daeron set a comforting hand on his thigh underneath the table. “I...I can imagine, your highness.”

Oberyn was leaning back in his chair, lazy, predatory. “I envy your uncle. If I could have gotten Rhaenys or Aegon out, kept them hidden as my child….”

“I wish you could have, truly,” Jon rushed to say and Daeron turned his attention away from Oberyn--the viper might be dangerous, but Jon’s reactions to this were far more fascinating.

“Do you? Even though if one of them had lived, you might never become Queen?”

Shaking his head, Jon leaned forward. “Believe me when I say I would have _preferred_ that. It should be Aegon and Rhaenys where we are now. I will be Queen because Daeron has asked it of me, because it is for the best for our House, for all of Westeros, but I would prefer to never have such a position.”

“...The King is _very_ hard to say no to.”

Jon’s eyes flickered in amusement and Daeron could imagine that he was thinking about the times he’d said ‘no’ to him. “You’ll find that having a dragon of one’s own improves one’s ability to argue,” he countered, drawing a laugh out of his audience.

Daeron pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Now, now, no need for threats.” He slid his eyes over to their guests. “We are all friends, all family, here.”

“Indeed, we are. In another life, I would have held you both as babes and teased you through childhood.” Oberyn’s voice went wistful and Ellaria wrapped an arm around him, leaning against him. “Elia had always loved being around lots of children, ever since our days at the Water Gardens together.”

Jon’s eyes seemed glued to Oberyn, desperate for any information on the family he’d never known. “Would my siblings have grown up there, do you think?”

Oberyn shook his head. “Not if Aerys had still been King. With Rhaegar...possibly.” Just as suddenly, as some new thought occurred to him, his melancholy melted away into anger. “We will never have the chance to know, thanks to the Baratheons and the _Lannisters_.”

The hatred with which he always spoke of the Lannisters was a comfort to Daeron. To know that he had allies who despised that family as much as he did. And Jon, who had largely avoided conversations about them so far, his eyes had gone dark, a deadly look he had worn before battle.

“They will pay,” Jon said, conviction in his voice--perhaps he, too, was remembering the betrayal of Tyrion and Jaime at the end. “They’ve brought too much suffering to too many.”

“Soon enough,” Daeron added, sharing a sharp smile with Oberyn, “the Lannisters will go down in history alongside the Reynes and the Tarbecks, as a House that no longer exists.”

Those dark words in this particular group could set a better mood and soon they had shuffled to speaking of their cultures and the food they ate. Jon agreed to show Oberyn Ghost and hinted at possibly having one of the Sand Snakes among his ladies. If Daeron let himself, he could sink into a fantasy of the family they should have had and the quiet dinners they might have shared.


	31. Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drumroll* haha here's a chapter lots of people were waiting for!
> 
> First, though, I thought I'd just kind of discuss this weird trend in the fandom right now to write what amounts to callouts of other people's work either in a work here or in comments and stuff. If you have a problem with a writer, say it to them on their fic or, even better, just talk to your friends or make a tumblr post or something. Don't shit on writers in other people's comments, don't make callout fics, what the fuck, fandom. 
> 
> Do some of us write cliched shit? Yeah. And guess what, readers _like it_. I will read every single Jonerys fic ever written about them going dark in/after season 8 and just murdering the shit out of people. I don't care how many there are, how similar they might end up being, I love that shit. Nearly every fanfic in existence has some trope or fandom specific cliche it's utilizing (and this is true of original work, too, even ASOIAF is stuffed full of tropes) and there's absolutely nothing wrong with people who like that. Acting like your own personal opinions, headcanons, and ships you like somehow give you moral superiority is just weird.
> 
> Anyway, per usual, you can find me on tumblr at [manyangledone](https://manyangledone.tumblr.com).

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

If it weren’t for Robb’s grip on his arm, Jon thought he might have fled at the words. What felt like every lord in the North, and more besides, was standing in the godswood, ready to witness his marriage.

He’d never imagined he’d be married, really married, in this life when he first woke up. And in the last one...he’d had a fantasy, for a time, of wedding Daenerys, but it had fallen apart when he’d found out the truth of his parentage. Foolishly, in retrospect, because Daenerys hadn’t cared about their blood and he shouldn’t have let himself, either.

“Alysanne of House Targaryen, comes here to be wed, a woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Daeron of House Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms. Who gives her?

“Robb of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, her,” Robb stumbled for just a moment, “cousin. Princess Alysanne, will you take this man?”

“I take this man.”

As soon as his cloak settled on Jon’s back, Daeron pulled him into a kiss. And then, unexpectedly, he motioned for something Missandei had been holding and carefully placed a beautifully crafted crown, the metal woven and shaped to look like roses twined together, onto Jon’s head.

“Queen Alysanne!” The crowd cheered and bowed, then quickly began to retreat back to the much warmer hall and the wedding feast waiting for them. 

Jon took a few moments to look around, dazed by marrying in Winterfell’s godswood, stuck wondering what it would be like if he’d done this with Daenerys in their past. He was jarred out of the thoughts, though, when Daeron suddenly swooped him into his arms.

Crying out, Jon locked his arms around Daeron’s neck, glaring at him. “A little warning would be nice.”

“I’m the one that has to carry you all the way back,” Daeron teased, as if Jon was not light and he was not excessively tall.

He sank into the hold, relaxing because he didn’t really have any other choice. “Why didn’t we do this before?” he muttered.

“...I don’t know. Everything happened so quickly. Everyone was against us, against us being together. We were dragons, but we were forgetting to be dragons.” Daeron’s arms tightened around him. “Never again, Jon. We were fools, but now we know better.”

“We’re still just people, Daeron, we’ll still make mistakes.”

“We’re not _just_ people, we’re blood of the dragon.”

Rolling his eyes, Jon let the topic drop, knowing he wouldn’t be able to ever convince Daeron that Targaryen Exceptionalism was wrong. The best he could do was temper the actions Daeron took because of his belief in it.

When they reached the feast, there was another round of cheers in their honor. He and Daeron sat beside each other at the high table, feasting and chatting with Jon’s family and their guests. Despite the dress he wore and the way people addressed him, he couldn’t help but fantasize again that this was the last life. That they had never gone South, never fallen apart.

But deep down he knew nothing would ever change what they’d done, not really. And that on the morrow he’d be going South once more. Where Starks went to suffer.

He couldn’t shake the dread, even though he knew he’d never really been a Stark.

***

Finally, Jon was his, cloaked in the colors he was always supposed to wear, his House acknowledged twice over. The feast was halfway done and soon enough they’d call for the bedding. And then...then everything would be official. 

Daenerys should have done this in the last life, should have married Jon before leaving for the South. He would have never killed his wife. But she’d been a fool, too trusting, not watching who she allowed near Jon. Daeron would not be like that.

At that thought, he looked around, picking out his spouse in the crowd, stunning in the black gown he wore. There was a woman with him, taller, blonde, beautiful. One of the free folk, from the white furs she wore and her casual stance. Daeron moved over to join them, though by the time he got within hearing distance their conversation had finished and she was going back over to drink with Tormund.

“That was Val?” Jon had mentioned her a few times on their outings, the free folk one of the safer topics for them to speak of.

“Yes.” Jon glanced at him, then looked back over the room. “I asked her to come South as one of my ladies.”

Laughing, Daeron tried to imagine how the court would deal with a wildling as one of their Queen’s ladies. Between her and Missandei, they could surely make the Southron ladies squirm. 

“Are you bringing any of the highborn Northerners?” 

Jon’s eyes darkened. “If I brought Arya, what would you do?”

Daeron thought of the little Stark who had killed the Night King in their last life. She had distrusted Daenerys, had helped put a wedge between she and Jon, but she, at least, had kept the secret she’d been told. And in this life she had no training as an assassin, even if she did try to kill Daeron she would never manage it.

“I want you to feel comfortable in our home. If that means having her around...I will allow it.” 

After what happened with Sansa, he would have to make a few concessions for now. And perhaps this Arya could be of use--if some things transcended lifetimes and circumstances, then if Daeron had to place Gendry as Lord of Storm’s End again, perhaps the two would be drawn together. And while the girl was a Stark, she was young enough, still inexperienced enough, that she could be influenced.

“...Thank you.”

“If nothing else, when I finally do allow Viserys to visit Dragonstone, we can let her at him.”

Jon gave a soft snort of laughter, hiding it behind his cup of ale. “I thought you were trying to keep him alive in this world?”

He shrugged, wrapping an arm around Jon’s waist and looking out over the crowd. “That all depends on him, just like the last life.”

“So you _are_ willing to accept that people shouldn’t be blamed for past actions?”

Daeron narrowed his eyes, glancing down at Jon. “If they had already been punished for them. There are some,” his eyes slid to Sansa, who was dancing with a young Northern lord, then Bran, who was in a group of other boys all chatting enthusiastically, “who were never punished.”

Jon was tenser in his hold at that, but Daeron refused to lie about such things. He would not let Jon’s soft heart, his small mercies, interfere in their reign. 

“But you, my dearest, are not without power.”

“Power in the government or power over you?”

“Are they not one and the same?”

Jon frowned up at him, eyes flicking to the side as he thought up a response, but never got the choice. A large, drunken man (Lord Umber, Daeron reminded himself, long dead before he’d set foot on Westeros before) had stood up and shouted down the rest of the crowd, calling for the bedding.

Beside him, Jon groaned. “If you do not want it, Jon, I can call them off.”

Shaking his head, Jon straightened his back, shoulders stiff and face set like stone. “No, it’s tradition, and we need to set this off right.” His lips twitched and he gave Daeron a sly look. “Besides, you’re the one who has to deal with knowing all those men have pawed at me.”

That made Daeron reconsider, but Robb was already there, lifting Jon gently into his arms, Theon Greyjoy (who Daeron had avoided for his entire stay, too shocked by the differences in the man) beside him, pulling playfully at Jon’s gown.

Daeron had thought, as the groom, his own encounter with the bedding would be far less of an issue. He hadn’t counted on the Mormont women and free folk that descended on him. By the time he was thrown into the bedroom, he had on half a pair of leggings, his crown, and a single sleeve.

“Savages,” he muttered, laughing, but he cut off when he finally spotted Jon.

If Daeron had been the sort to truly believe in gods, he thought he might mistake Jon for one. If this was how men had felt when they’d seen Daenerys in her skimpier gowns, he didn’t know how anyone had ever resisted her.

“What?” Jon’s voice was accusing and Daeron had to laugh, shaking his head.

“It’s just...I love you.”

Jon flushed, glancing away, but did not reply in turn. Daeron knew it was still hard for him, sometimes, and didn’t push. Soon enough Jon would say those words to him without any prompting necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving the (mild) sexy times its own chapter because Baggage and stuff lol


	32. Winterfell

Jon sat down on the bed, twisting his hands together as he had little else to distract himself. Daeron was…very nice looking. But being without much clothing, alone in such a small room...it just reminded Jon of how very vulnerable he was.

“You are _too tall_ , it’s completely unfair,” he said, trying to lighten the mood, _his_ mood, at least.

Daeron laughed, much harder than Jon would have thought he would. “My poor little Jon,” he teased, walking over to the bed to pat him on the head. “It must be annoying, to know I’d even be taller than you had been. But don’t worry, we were a good size together, in the last life, weren’t we?”

“Oh?” Jon raised his eyebrows, giving a slight smirk. “So you’re saying we’re _not_ in this one? I’m about the height you were and you are excessively tall.”

Shaking his head, Daeron grasped Jon’s waist and lifted him in the air, ignoring his protests. Jon held onto him, heart pounding too-fast, but didn’t make any move to get away. This _had_ to happen, he knew, and stalling wouldn’t get him anywhere.

“Don’t worry, we can surely handle that.” Their mouths were on level, now, and Daeron didn’t hesitate to push against Jon’s, kissing with abandon.

It was passionate, almost feral. Jon couldn’t help but think of the dragons outside. Daeron turned them and pushed Jon against the wall for more leverage, shoving a leg between Jon’s.

Jon froze, breath catching. For a moment, Daeron kept kissing him, but then seemed to realize he was the only participant. Pulling back, he frowned, and Jon wondered what must be going through his head.

Suddenly they were moving again, Daeron easily carrying him over to the bed. But instead of setting Jon down and moving on top of him, which Jon had expected, he backed onto the bed, settling Jon down to straddle his waist.

“Perhaps like this?”

“I don’t...I haven’t been with a man in this body,” Jon muttered, hoping it would be some explanation, hands hovering over Daeron’s chest.

“Would you prefer we start slower?” Daeron’s smile was wicked, enticing. “Perhaps the lord’s kiss might loosen you up, my dear?”

Jon shivered, imagining those lips against him, those long, strong fingers inside of him. “I...maybe….”

It wasn’t so different than the things that Val had done, it wouldn’t be until...until Daeron became more of an active participant. Jon thought he could deal with that. He’d have to, eventually, after all. This was his body now, nothing could change that, except maybe a third death, which...he wasn’t looking forward to, at all.

“...Have you been with anyone? In this life?”

Jon scoffed. “So you can run out and kill them and come back here and fuck me with your hands covered in their blood?”

Daeron flinched. “...I will give you a free pass. Anything before tonight, I will allow.”

“How kind of you, allowing those things which I did already.”

“...Who was it?”

Debating with himself for a moment, Jon finally declared, “Val, it was Val.”

“The Wildling you’re bringing back with us? Bold, nephew.”

“You’re the one that wanted me to act more like a dragon.”

***

Daeron almost laughed. His hands still slid over Jon’s smooth skin, exalting in how free of scars he was in this world. He would never live through the trials of the last life, would never have to fear daggers in the night.

“...Were you involved with her in the last life?”

“What? Val?” Jon all but scoffed at the idea. “No, I was...it was...someone else.”

Daeron’s hands stilled. “Who?”

Jon turned his head away, his hair falling around him like a dark veil. “Tormund. After...after.”

His eyes widened, remembering the boisterous man who even in this world could not fit into Winterfell. He’d been good friends with Jon, had clearly cared about him. Daeron supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that he might have taken the opportunity of Jon suddenly being free of other obligations to be with him.

“...That was the other man you’d been with?”

“Well, there was...I’d played around a bit, with some others, but Tormund was the only one I was...so intimate with.”

There were so many things that Daenerys hadn’t known about Jon, Daeron was coming to realize. He’d make it one of his missions not to let that happen again. Any and every piece of information he could get out of Jon, he would, so that there were no secrets, no shame. 

“So the problem isn’t that I’m a man.” No, it wouldn’t be, not with the way Jon was reacting to his touch.

Confirming that, Jon shook his head. “It’s not that, it’s...this...I….” He awkwardly motioned between his legs. “It’s weird.”

“Is it?” Daeron stroked Jon’s thighs, running his hands over the soft hair there, dipping them between teasingly. “If you took me in your mouth, would it be different?”

“I _had_ a mouth.”

“Yes, but it’s all just a body, isn’t it? Who knows, maybe we’ll be reborn once more after this life, back in the sort of bodies we had the first time around.”

Jon wrinkled his nose, an adorable look on him. “Please, don’t even joke about that. Two lives will be more than enough.”

Daeron slid his hands around to the back of Jon’s thighs, encouraging him to move up his body. “Then why don’t we start as I suggested and go from there?” Once Jon had a few orgasms, Daeron didn’t think he’d notice much difference what hole he was being taken in.

With an adorable flush of his cheeks, Jon did as instructed, biting his lip and looking so much like a blushing virgin that Daeron could almost believe he was.

“Don’t worry, my dear, you’ll be in complete control of this.”


	33. Winterfell

Jon woke up feeling well-rested, though a little sore. 

For a few moments, he debated trying to go back to sleep--it wouldn’t be so unseemly, for a newly wedded person to laze about in bed all day. And yet...they were supposed to be leaving. He had made that decision when he really shouldn’t have, but Daeron had clearly been planning to stick with it.

He opened his eyes, startling when he saw that Daeron was already awake, sitting up in bed and watching him. They stared at each other for a moment, Daeron unblinking, Jon wondering just how long he'd been doing that.

“A servant has brought food.” Daeron waved to a side table, though made no effort to get up.

Humming in acknowledgement, Jon closed his eyes and shifted around, getting into a more comfortable position. He’d soak in the hot springs, he decided. No matter what he and Val had done, this body just hadn’t been used to the sort of activities and positions Daeron had put it through.

“My poor dear,” he heard Daeron murmur, and then he felt hands stroking through his hair. “Should I send for a maester?”

Jon wrinkled his nose. “No, I don’t want anyone else poking around down there for a long time.”

Daeron laughed and the bed shifted. Then there were hands gently parting his thighs and Jon was biting his lip as Daeron searched him for any signs of trouble.

“Mm, everything looks good.” His head ducked closer and Jon caught it in his hands, pushing him back.

“No, don’t you dare. You’ll put more bruises on my thighs and call them love bites. You do remember I have to ride a dragon later, don’t you?”

He received a blinding smile in reply and he supposed reminding Daeron that they were leaving a place he hated in the most Targaryen way possible could do much to distract his...his husband.

Jon didn’t know if he’d ever be used to that.

Even now, the feelings in his body, the knowledge of what they’d done the night before, was daunting. It wasn’t that he hadn’t found pleasure in it, he definitely had, but there’d been a part of him that had a hard time detaching what he knew he should be feeling, from the last life, to what he was feeling in this one.

“Missandei was in charge of packing your things. If she’s forgotten something, your cousin can bring it with her when she leaves.”

He nodded, realizing they’d really be on Dragonstone practically alone, at least as far as people he knew went, waiting weeks for the others to get there by ship. 

“Arya would like to ride on dragon back,” he tried, though when he saw Daeron’s displeased look he stopped.

No sense ruining the good mood Daeron was in. 

Instead, he hurriedly stated, “I should go speak to Robb about our plans. And say my goodbyes.”

When he’d get back North, he didn’t know. Daeron hadn’t been wrong before, without the dragon, what threat was the Night King? How long would it take the Others to get past a now-manned Wall?

Daeron reluctantly let Jon wash himself off and throw on clothing the servants had left for them, but he didn’t let him leave without a kiss. Married life would be odd, he thought, as he made his way through his childhood home.

Daenerys had been married before in their last life, but it was something Jon had avoided one way or another. Tormund had joked sometimes at the end that he should steal Jon, make things official, but Jon had been a bad enough partner without being an awful spouse.

His rooms really had been packed up, he saw when he got there, even objects he would have probably left behind now stowed away somewhere. From there, he went to locate Arya, checking in on her and her plans to come along later to Dragonstone.

“I’ve always wanted to see it! The Dragonmont! The Painted Table!” She was grinning, young and innocent still, thinking they were going on some grand adventure.

Jon managed a smile for her. “We’ll be in the same place Queen Visenya lived.” That set her off into another flurry of excitement and he gladly left her to the servants who were trying to fit her for Southron style clothing.

Robb was more circumspect, half-suspecting his sister would be as much hostage as lady-in-waiting, but not wanting Jon to be alone in the South, either. “Arya will be traveling with three ravens. Two trained for Winterfell and one trained for White Harbor. If _anything_ happens.”

Rolling his eyes, Jon bypassed Robb’s desk and pulled him into a hug. “I thought I was the broody one, Stark. Don’t worry, if anything happens, I’ve got a _dragon_ who can cover that time much faster than a bird.”

“You might be right about that, but just in case you can’t get away….”

Jon didn’t comment on the fact that if Daeron decided to keep Jon captive, he’d certainly not be allowed to send out personal ravens. “I’ll be fine. You’ve got enough to worry about without adding me to the mix.”

“Are you kidding? You’ve always been at least half of my worries, Jon.”

***

Daeron met with some of the lords to finalize troop movements, met with his own people to make sure their travel arrangements were on track, and then he slipped down into the crypts.

He had no interest in watching Jon say goodbye to the Starks, not when he knew they’d be heartfelt and warm, not at all the sort of hatred that his nephew should hold for them.

But here, staring at the statue of Lyanna Stark, he felt something for this place. In the last life, Daenerys had found out about Jon’s heritage in this very spot...and thought nothing but the worst scenarios. Daeron knew better, knew that he’d thrown away the chance the gods had given him to restore his family and that they had given them a second chance.

“Would that you and my brother could see him,” he muttered, fingers brushing against Lyanna’s outstretched stone hands. 

A soft breeze rustled his hair and he sighed, thinking how much he would enjoy getting away from the cold of the North. Then stilled, slowly turning in a circle, looking around the crypts. He was too far down for breezes, surely.

When he’d come fully back around, facing Lyanna’s statue again, a blue rose sat in its palms. One he had not thought to place there.

Daeron took a deep breath, knowing magic when he saw it. “We will make you proud. Restore our House. Our family.”

Whether it was Lyanna or Rhaegar, or someone or something else entirely, that had shown him its presence, Daeron didn’t know. But he chose to believe it was a good sign. 

Deciding he’d stalled enough, Daeron took the stairs two at a time, reaching the courtyard in time to watch Jon giving Sansa an awkward pat on the shoulder in lieu of a hug goodbye.

“I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Stark,” Daeron said, as he looped his arm possessively around Jon’s waist. “We shall see each other again, soon enough, when we come to assist the North at the Wall.”

Robb, and his household, bowed low to their King and Queen. After a few more formal words of parting, Jon and Daeron walked out of the gate. The dragons waited close-by for them and were just as eager to get out of the North and back home as Daeron was.

“If you fear you have lost your way, trust in Viserion,” Daeron reminded Jon, giving him a deep kiss before heading over to Drogon.

Jon might not feel the pull of home, yet, but someday Daeron was sure he would. Already he was embracing his true family so much more than he had in the last life.


	34. Dragonstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took awhile, it's sort of a lull period in the plot for me and real life has been ugh.
> 
> Reminder if you wanna talk ships or my fics, or whatever, I'm [manyangledone](https://manyangledone.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.

Jon loved flying.

There was nothing as freeing as it. The wind in his hair, his mind sinking into Viserion's, the heat of the dragon's body making the cold a non-issue.

If it wasn't for the stiffness in his limbs, he'd be upset when they finally reached Dragonstone. That and Viserion's own pleasure at seeing the island, which thrummed through Jon’s mind, barely distinguishable from his own thoughts after they’d spent so long bonding.

Could he have had this with Rhaegal in his last life? Was it time that had worked against them, how little he actually got with his dragon, or was it that the two of them were settling on less than perfect matches?

He couldn’t let himself dwell on those thoughts for long, he knew he’d never get an answer, now.

Daeron was waiting for him, insisting on taking his arm as they headed towards the castle.

"It's good to be home, isn't it?"

Jon bit back his first response, to remind Daeron that Winterfell was his home, and instead gave a noncommittal noise. "It will be odd to be here without...so many of the people who were here before."

Davos was still with Stannis, surely. Missandei and Grey Worm were traveling with the main group. Tyrion was...Jon wasn't actually sure where he was, but assumed he'd be dead if he showed up here.

He wouldn't even blame Daeron for it. Tyrion had set Daenerys up to fail. For all they knew, he’d even planned for something like what happened.

"It will be very different, this time." Daeron smiled down at him. "You were only here, knowing your true self, for such a short time, during such a rough period. Now you can appreciate our heritage."

Jon looked back up at the castle, the gleaming black stone, the dragons carved near everywhere they could be. “This _is_ where it all started,” he finally said, stating the truth that no one could deny. “Where our family came even before the Doom.”

“Daenys knew and our family heeded her. That is a lesson we should take to heart. The magic of Old Valyria should always take precedent for us.”

“As opposed to the magic of the First Men?” he said outloud, before he could stop himself.

He was still both. Ghost was still a part of him and the North itself.

Daeron looked down at him, eyes showing he was not amused. “ _We_ were brought back, no one else. The last scions of Old Valyria. Do you truly think it was the magic of those Old Gods or the Children that chose _us_?”

Shrugging, Jon looked away again, focusing on taking one step after another towards the castle. His castle, he supposed, as he was still Daeron’s heir if anything happened to the King.

His free hand strayed to his stomach, as he felt a flutter of panic at the edge of his thoughts, and then he pushed them away. Better to just not deal with it all until he had to.

“Maybe there’s something about balancing everything out. Ice and fire.”

“His is the song of ice and fire,” Daeron muttered, but he didn’t bother clarifying when Jon gave him a confused look.

***

The view of Jon just _being_ on Dragonstone was a magnificent one. Daeron had spent so very long waiting to meet him in this world and now he was here, a Targaryen, in their house colors, in their ancestral seat.

He took Jon on a mostly unnecessary tour, wanting to keep up appearances. There were a few places that Jon hadn’t gone on the island in their last life, he’d been little more than a hostage for most of his initial stay. 

Now his rooms were near Daeron’s own and the places that Daenerys had reserved for her household were his, as well. 

And the throne room...Daeron didn’t think he’d ever wanted to see another on a throne before, Daenerys certainly hadn’t, but as he guided Jon up towards it he felt nothing but excitement.

“Dragonstone is yours, technically.” Jon was his heir, after all, and Dragonstone was the heir’s seat.

Jon seemed reluctant to approach the great piece of dragonglass, instead stalling by studying the rest of the room. “I...don’t really need it.”

A wave of frustration washed over Daeron, threatening to chase away his good mood, though not his building arousal. “It doesn’t matter whether you need it. Whether you _want_ it,” he gritted out, Daenerys’ memories dancing through his mind. “It is yours. Your birthright. Your responsibility.”

He looked at Daeron, then, frowning. “What responsibility?”

“Do you think Dragonstone runs itself? The Prince or Princess of Dragonstone used to be its ruler. There is a castelan now, there will be a castelan later, but it won’t change that everything that happens here will be ultimately down to you.”

If there was one thing that had always made Jon take the power he was so reluctant about, it was knowing he had a responsibility to others. A duty. 

“Sit.” Daeron motioned Jon to the throne.

Jon sighed, then went, carefully sitting down. The contrast of his skin and the red in his clothing was brilliant where it stood out against the way the other, darker colors of him sank into the chair. He looked made for it.

Daeron approached, waving Jon down when he looked like he might stand up, and knelt in front of him. His own breathing was rougher, faster than it had been, and Jon’s seemed to be speeding up to match it as he watched him, waited for him to make a move.

“You’re perfect” he finally said, hands gliding up Jon’s legs.

Flushing, Jon looked away, muttering a denial that Daeron ignored. He would have kept ignoring everything, would have slowly seduced Jon on the throne, so caught up in the sight of him, but he vaguely heard the shuffling of their guards, the steps of their servants, and held back. 

Standing up, reluctantly, he held out a hand to help Jon, taking the opportunity to pull him close and kiss him. “Alas, our duties call.”


End file.
